IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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Photographic 

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reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  chanja 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


n 


D 


D 


D 

D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


|~n    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagAe 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurAe  et/ou  peilicuSte 


□   Cover  title  missing/ 
Le 


n 


titre  de  couverture  manque 


r~~|   Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 

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I      I  Includes  supplementary  material/ 

I — I  Only  edition  available/ 


The 
to  tl 


The 

POS! 
of  tl 
film 


Crig 

begi 

the 

sion 

othe 

first 

sion 

orii 


The 
shai 
TINi 
whi( 

INAap 
difffl 
entir 
begii 
right 
requ 
metl 


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10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

/ 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

re 

l«tails 
M  du 
modifier 
•r  une 
Fiimage 


les 


errata 
Ho 


I  pelure, 

on  it 


32X 

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method: 


1 

2 

3 

L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grflce  d  la 
gin^rositi  de: 

BibliothAque  nationale  du  Canada 


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conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
fiimage. 

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par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
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d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  ie 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 

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Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  I'angle  supirieur  gauche,  de  gauche  it  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas.  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nicessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mithode. 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

POPULAR    NOVELS 

BY  MAY  AGNES  FLEMING. 


I. — GUY  KARI,S(  OLKI 's  WIFE. 
2. — A  WONDKKFUL  WOMAN. 

3.  —A  JK-RRIIMJ':   SIXKFr. 

4.  — NOl-'l  N  K'S  KFVFNC.F. 

5.  —A  MAI)    MAKklACK. 

6.  -oNK  MC.HIS  MVSTFkY. 
7. —  KAI'K  DANTON. 

.S. — SII,KN  r  AM)  TKUK. 

9. — IIKIR  OV  CHAKL'IHJN. 
10. — CAUKIKD  1!V  S'KiRM. 
II. —  LOST  FOR  A  Woman. 
12. — A  WIFF's  TRAGEUV. 
13. — A  LllANCFI)   HFART. 
14. —  I'klDF  AN!)  PASSION. 

15.— sH  \i;ix(;  m;R  crfmf. 

16.— A  WKOXC.F!)  WIFF. 
17.  -M.vrDI',   i'FR(  V'S  SFCRFT. 
18. —  IIIF  A(   IRFSS'  DAUGHTFR. 
19. —  lllF  (.irFKN  OF   TUl',  ISLE. 
20.—  IIIF  MIDMGIlr  (^;LFFN. 
21. —  FDll'H    FlRCIv'.AI.  (\V7l'). 

"!Mts.   I'Mc'i'iiv'/'H  ;i!()ii('s   nri'  trrowlu'j:  inoic  and  more 

j><»liiiliii-  r  >  nv  d-t\.     J  licir  (Itliiu'iiliniis  nt  fliurat'ter, 

iiiV-iil.;'     col' ,  ('rs:i!  Inns,    lliislt  s    of     \.\\,-    vow- 

s!;iiil  iv  \  :ii';,  lilt:'  .stciics.  :iii<l  .!» cplv  jniii'csl- 

iii^'    i;luis,   cuiiiliiiic    to    phu'c  tlu;ir 

luitlior  ill  tlic  \  cry  ln.^i  ruiik 

(if  .'1! o(l(  !  ;i  '\o\  t'lisis." 

All  i);r  li -iic'l   .iiiiriiiiM  Vviils  IliiM  -.olrji  c.     rjicc,  ."^1.50 
eacii,  and  .<vut  jnv  by  mail  on  ircfipt  of  price  by 

G.  W.  DILLINGHAM,  Publisher, 

Successor  to  G.  W.  Carletoii  t\:  Co.,  N.  Y. 


I 


Wonderful  Woman 


3^  ii09:i. 


MAY    AGNES   FLEMING, 


'CSV 


AU-moi  Of 
•  Warm.*      A  I'buul*  S«a«r."  Ktt:..  St<u,  fcva 


•C» 


i-EW     YORK: 

G.    IV,    Dillingham.    Publisher, 

Succisso"    .0  G.  W.   Caru.vton  U  Co. 

MDCCCXC! 


\  V\ 


Copyrighted   by 
\V.  Capxk  TON  cS: 


A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN 


CHAPTER  1. 


KATHERINK. 


[HE  large,  loud-voiced  clock  orer  the  sUbl«.6  strunk 
nine,  and  announced  to  all  whom  it  might  concern 
that  the  breakfast-hour  of  Sir  John  Dar  gerheld,  Bar- 
onet, of  Scarswood  Park,  Sussex,  had  arrived. 

Scarswood  Park  I  A  glorious  old  place,  lying  deep  down  in 
the  green  heart  of  a  Sussex  woodland !  A  glorious  old  place, 
where  the  rare  red  deer  disported  amid  the  emerald  glades,  and 
dusky,  leafy  aisles  of  the  oak  and  beech  !  A  vast  and  stately 
park,  sloping  down  to  the  tawny  sea-shore,  and  a  vast  and 
stately  mansion,  its  echoing  turrets  rising  high  above  the  tower- 
ing oak  and  copper  beeches,  and  its  eastern  endows  sparkling 
in  the  red  sunlight  of  this  bright  September  morning  like 
eparks  of  fire  I 

Within  and  without  the  great  house  was  very  still ;  a  break 
fast-table,  sparkling  with  crystal,  rich  with  rough  old  silver,  ga) 
with  tall  glasses  of  September  roses,  and  snowy  with  naperV; 
stood  ready  and  waiting  in  a  spacious  room. 

Through  the  open  windows  the  sweet,  hay-scented  morning 
wind  blew,  and  far  off  you  caught  in  the  summer  stillness  tho 
ioft  wash  of  the  waves  on  the  yellow  sands,  more  than  a  milo 
away. 

At  the  last  chime  of  the  loud-voiced  clock  the  door  opened, 
and  Sir  John  Dangertield  came  into  the  room.  A  silver-toned 
French  time-piece  on  the  marble  mantel  began  a  tinkling  waltz, 
preparatory  to  repeating  the  hour ;  the  birds;  in  tlieir  gilded 
cages,  sang  blithely  their  welcome  ;  but  the  uaronet  glanced 
Impatiently  around  in  search  of  something  or  somebody  else. 

*'  N  t  dowii  yet,"  he  said.      "  That's   not  like  Kaih««ae  | 

If 


SCAThMMJAfiL 


Shit  is  not  ascd  to  dissipation,  and  I  suppose  Ust  ni^hf  s  conr.'trl 
hoL  mada  her  lazy  this  morning.  Thomas," — to  i  footman, 
appearing  like  a  tall  plush  specter  in  the  dooiway — '*tcll  Miw 
Katherine's  maid  thai  I  am  waiting  breakfast.  Has  the  Tlmt$ 
*rrived?" 

"  Yes,  Sir  John." 

Thomas  presented  ttte  folded  Thunderer  to  his  master,  an4 
T^shed. 

Sir  John  Dangerlield  flung  himself  into  an  easy-chair,  that 
poaned  in  every  joint  with  his  three  hundred  pounds  of  mao* 
hood,  and  opened  the  damp  London  paper,  perfumiag  the  room 
frith  the  smell  of  printers'  ink.  Ht?  was  a  tall,  portly  gentle- 
man this  Sussex  baronet,  with  a  handsome,  florid  face,  and  an 
upright,  military  bearing.  For  tiiree  months  only  had  he  reigned 
master  of  Scars  wood  ;  three  lives  had  stood  between  him  and  the 
baronetcy,  and,  a  colonel  in  the  HonorabU;  I'ast  India  Com- 
pany's Service,  he  had,  fotir  months  before  this  sunny  September 
morning,  aboft  as  much  idea  of  ever  lording  it  in  Scarswood 
Hall  as  he  had  of  ever  sitting  on  the  throne  of  England.  Sud- 
denly, and  as  if  a  fatality  were  at  work,  these  three  lives  had 
been  removed,  and  Colonel  Dangerfield,  of  her  Majesty's  H. 
E.  I.  C.  S.,  became  Sir  John  Dangerfield,  of  Scarswood  Park, 
and,  with  his  daughter  and  heiress,  came  back  to  England  for 
the  first  time  in  fifteen  years.  He  was  a  widower,  and  Miss 
Dangerfield,  his  daughter,  his  heiress,  his  idol,  had  been  bom 
in  England,  and  was  two  years  old  when  her  father  had  first 
gone  out  to  India,  and  grown  n[)  to  be  nearly  seventee"!  before 
ihe  ever  set  foot  upon  English  soil  again. 

He  unfolded  his  paper,  but  he  did  not  read.  The  loiid  smg- 
Ing  of  the  birds,  the  d  izzling  biightness  of  tlie  summer  morning, 
disturbed  him,  jferha  js.  It  dropped  on  his  knee,  and  his  eyes 
turned  on  the  eir;,idid  lawn,  on  the  tangled  depths  of  fern  and 
bracken,  on  the  dark  expanse  of  waving  woodland — tecrace, 
Uwn,  and  coppice,  all  bathed  in  the  glorious  golden  light. 

"  A  fair  prospect,"  he  said — "  a  princely  inheritance  I  And 
to  think  that  four  months  ago  1  was  grilling  alive  in  Calcutta, 
with  no  earthly  hope  but  that  of  retiring  one  day  from  the 
Company's  service  with  chronic  liver  complaint,  and  a  colosel's 
half-pay.  For  myself  it  would  not  matter  ;  but  for  Katherine  i " 
His  face  changed  suddenly.  "  If  1  only  could  be  certain  she 
"fftiQ  dead  I  If  1  only  could  be  certain  iny  secret  was  buried 
with,  her  I  It  never  mattered  before — we  were  oat  of  her  reacli; 
but  since  my  accession  to  Scarswood,  since  my  return  to  Eng- 


;    t? 


i 


■ 


JCATHEMIUM, 


II 


Ittnd;  tfiAt  w'l etch's  Uicinory  has  haunted  me  like  an  evil  tpirit 
Only  last  night  I  dreamed  of  her— -dreamed  [  saw  her  evil 
black  eyes  gleaming  upon  me  in  this  room.     Paiigh  I " 

A  shudder  of  disgust — a  look  of  abhorrence  ;  then  he  lifte<* 
the  paper  again — and  again  he  dropped  it. 

A  door  far  above  closed  with  a  bang ;  a  fresh  young  /olcc 
caroling  like  a  bird ;  the  quick  patter,  patter,  patter,  of  iittlf 
To  male  feet  downstairs — the  last  three  cleared  with  a  jump  : 
And  then  the  door  of  tlie  breakfast-room  was  flung  wide,  an) 
the  beiresa  of  Scarswood  Park  flashed  into  the  room. 

Flashed — I  use  the  word  advisedly — flashed  in  like  a  burst 
of  sunshine — like  a  hillside  breeze — and  stood  before  her  father 
in  fluttering  white  muslin,  pink  ribbons  waving,  brown  hair  fly- 
ing, gray  eyes  dancing,  and  her  fresh,  sweet  voice  ringing  through 
the  room. 

"  Good  morning,  papa ! "  Miss  Dangerfield  cried,  panting, 
and  out  of  breath.  "  Is  breakfast  ready  ?  I'm  perfectly  fam- 
ished, and  would  have  starved  to  death  m  bed  if  Ninon  hat!  not 
come  and  routed  me  out.  And  how  is  your  appetite,  papa  ? — 
and  I  hope  I  have  not  kept  you  waiting  too  long — and,  oh  I 
wasn't  the  concert  perfectly  de — licious  last  night ! " 

And  then  two  white  arms  went  impetuously  around  the  neck 
of  the  Indian  officer,  and  two  fresh  rosy  lips  gave  him  a  kiss 
that  exploded  like  a  torpedo. 

Sir  John  disengaged  himself  laughingly  from  this  impulsive  em- 
brace. 

"  Gently,  gently,  Kathie  I  don't  quite  garrote  me  with  thofcc 
long  arms  of  yours.  Stand  off  and  let  me  see  how  you  look 
after  last  night's  dissipation.     A  perfect  wreck,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  Dissipation !  A  perfect  wreck  !  Oh,  papa,  it  was  heavenly 
— ^just  that  I  I  shall  never  forget  that  tenor  singer — who  sang 
Fortunio's  song,  you  know,  papa,  with  his  splendid  eyes,  and 
the  face  of  a  Greek  god.  And  his  name — Gaston  Dantree-« 
beautiful  as  himself.  Don't  talk  to  me  of  dissipation  and  a 
wreck ;  1  mean  to  go  again  to-night,  and  to-morrow  night,  and 
&U  the  to-morrow  nights  while  those  concerts  are  given  by  the 
Talbots." 

She  stood  before  him,  gesticulating  rapidly,  with  the  golden 
morning  light  pouring  full  on  her  face. 

And  Miss  Kathcrine  Dangerfield,  heiress  and  heroine,  was 
beautiful,  you  say,  as  an  heiress  and  heroine  should  be  ?  I  am 
ttcrry  to  say  No.  The  young  ladies  of  the  neighborhood,  other- 
wiise  English  xui^es  with  pink  a.iid  wbiu  complexions,  and  per 


12 


iCATHARJUJi. 


feci  .1  .jineni,  wonkl  have  told  you  Kathcrine  Dangerfieid  wa» 
Unky  and  overgrown,  had  sunburnt  hands  and  complcvioiA, 
too  iniall  a  nose,  and  too  large  a  mouth  and  chin.  Would 
have  told  you  her  forehead  was  low,  her  complexion  sallow, 
ami  her  manners  perfectly  horrible.  She  was  boisterous,  she 
was  a  hoyden,  she  said  whatever  came  uppennost  in  her  mijid, 
•as  utterly  spoiled  by  a  doling  father,  and  had  the  temper  of  t» 
vfry  tennagant.  They  would  probably  have  forgotten  to  men* 
den- -those  young  ladies — that  the  sallow  complexion  was  lit 
fey  a  pair  of  loveliest  dark -gray  eyes,  that  the  tall,  supple  figure 
of  ihe  girl  of  seventeen  ga-e  rare  promise  of  statelv  and  majes- 
tic womanhood,  that  the  ever-ready  smile,  which  parted  the  rosy 
lips,  displayed  a  set  of  teeth  flashing  like  jewels. 

They  would  have  forgotten  to  mention  the  wonderful  fall  of 
bright  brown  hair,  dark  m  the  shadow,  red  gold  in  the  light,  and 
the  sweet  freshness  of  a  voice  so  silver-toned  that  all  who  heard 
it  paused  to  listen.  Not  handsome — you  would  never  have 
called  her  that — but  bright,  bright  and  blithe  as  the  summer 
sunshine  itself 

'*  Well,  papa,  and  how  do  I  look  ?  Not  very  much  uglier 
than  usual,  I  hope.  Oh,  papa,"  the  girl  cried,  suddenly,  clasp- 
ing her  hands,  "  why,  v/hy,  why  wasn't  I  bom  handsome  ?  I 
adore  beauty — pictures,  music,  sunshine,  flowers,  and — hand- 
some men  !  I  hate  women — I  hate  girls — vain,  malicious  mag- 
pita — spiteful  and  spiritless.  Why  don't  I  look  like  you,  papa, 
— you  handsome,  splendid  old  soldier  !  Why  was  I  bom  with 
a  yellow  skin,  an  angular  figure,  and  more  arms  and  hands 
than  I  ever  know  what  to  do  with  ?  Whom  do  I  take  after  to 
be  so  ugly,  papa?  Not  after  you,  that's  clear.  Then  it  must 
be  after  mamma  ?" 

Miss  Dangerfield  haa  danced  over  to  the  great  mirror  on  the 
KaanteL  and  stood  ga/ing  discontentedly  at  her  own  image  in 
tile  ^lass. 

Sir  John,  in  his  sunny  window-seat,  had  been  listening  with 
SLU  indulgent  smile,  folding  his  crackling  paper.  The  crackling 
suddenly  ceased  at  hiz  £iughter's  last  words,  the  smile  dieo 
^olly  away. 

"Say,  papa,"  Katnerine  cried,  imimtiently,  '  do  I  look  like 
isnaniraa  ?  I  never  saw  her,  you  know,  nor  her  picture,  nor  any- 
thing. If  1  do,  you  couldn't  have  been  over  and  above  partic- 
vXzi  during  the  period  of  love's  young  dream.  Do  I  inherit  my 
XSLwaj  complexioii,  and  square  chin,  and  snub  nose,  acid  lo# 
tM'eheaJ  Uos^  Ut^  'UXc  hli^  Coi<i>nel  Dangerteld?" 


,k 


Her  uUher  Uid  down  hia  paper,  and  arose. 

**  Come  to  breakfast,  Kathcrine,"  he  said,  more  coidly  thar 
he  had  ever  spoken  to  her  before  in  his  life,  "  and  be  kind 
enough  to  drop  the  subj«^ct.  Youi  flippant  manner  of  speaking 
of— of  your  mother,  is  positively  shocking.  I  am  afraid  it  if 
'  true  what  they  say  of  you  here — Indian  nurses — the  lack  of  a 
mother's  care — and  n^"  indulgence,  have  s\)oiled  you." 

'*  Very  well,  papa  ;  then  the  fault's  yours  and  you  shouldn't 
iftUune  me.  The  what's-his-natnc  cannot  change  his  spots,  and 
I  can't  change  my  irreverent  nature  any  more  than  I  can  my 
looks.     But  reriily  and  truly,  papa,  do  I  look  l^ke  mamma  ?  " 

"  No — yes — I  don't  know." 

"  No— yes — I  don't  know,  intelligible,  perhaps,  but  not  at 
all  satisfactory.  When  /am  left  a  widow,  I  hoi>e  I  shall  remem- 
ber how  the  dear  departed  partner  of  my  existence  looked, 
even  after  thirteen  years.  Have  you  no  port;>iit  of  mamma, 
then  ?  " 

"  No  t  In  Heaven's  name,  Kath<  nne,  eat  your  breakfasti 
and  let  me  eat  mine ! " 

"  I  am  eating  my  breakfast,"  responded  his  daughter,  testily. 
*I  suppose  a  person  can  talk  and  c.it  at  th?  same  time. 
Haven't  you  rather  got  a  pain  in  your  temper  this  morning 
papa?  And  I  must  say  I  think  it  a  little  too  hard  that  I  can't 
be  told  who  I  take  my  ugliness  from.  I'm  much  obliged  to 
Ih^m  for  the  inheritance,  whoever  they  were." 

Sir  John  again  laid  down  his  paper  with  a  resign«*d  sigh.  Ho 
knew  of  old  how  useless  it  was  to  try  and  stera  the  torrent  ol 
his  daughter's  eloquence. 

**  What  nonsense  you  talk,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  You're  not 
Bgly — ^you  don't  want  your  father  to  pay  you  compliments,  do 
vou,  Katherine  ?  I  thought  your  cousin  Peter  paid  you  eiiOTif^ 
fast  night  to  satisfy  even  your  vanity  for  a  month." 

Katherine  shook  her  head  impatiently  until  all  its  ied-bro«va 
•resses  flashed  again. 

"  Peter  Dangerfield — wretched  little  bore !  Yes,  he  paid  rue 
compliments,  with  his  hideous  little  weasen  face  close  to  my 
ear  until  I  told  him  for  goodness  sake  to  hold  bis  tonj^ue,  and 
not  drive  me  frantic  with  his  idiotic  remarks  !  He  let  me  alone 
After  that,  and  sulked  !  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  papa — if  some- 
tiling  is  not  done  to  prevent  him,  that  'ittle  grinning  imberile 
will  be  asking  me  to  marry  hiiu  one  of  these  days — mark  my 
words  I " 

**  y«y  wcU^  -suppose  he  does  ?  "     ITie  b^xonct  lcane<i  Lttin 


I 


14 


^ATMHAJNA. 


in  his  chair  aud  raised  hk  j>aper  nervinioiy  before  \ii  Im^ 
*'  Suppose  he  does,  Kathie — what  then  ?  " 

"What  then  I"  ITie  young  lady  could  but  just  repeat  the 
words  in  her  amaze  and  indignation.  "  What  then  !  Sir  John 
Dangerfield — do  you  n^ean  to  insult  me,  sir  ?  Put  down  that 
paper  this  instant,  and  look  the  person  you're  talking  to  fui!  in 
tku  face,  and  lepeat  '  what  then,*  if  you  dare  !  " 

"Well,  Kathie,"  the  baronet  said,  still  fidgeting  with  his  paper 
jcreen  and  not  locking  his  excited  little  rominanding  officer  ir 
the  £&ce,  "  Peter's  not  handsome,  i  know,  nor  dashing,  bi  t  he's 
a  clever  little  fellow,  and  my  nephew,  and  in  love  with  you, 
and  will  make  you  a  much  better  husband,  my  dear,  than  2 
much  better-looking  man.  Handsome  me>i  are  always  vain  as 
peacocks,  and  so  deeply  in  love  with  themselves  that  they 
never  have  room  in  their  conceited  hearts  and  empty  heads  to 
love  any  one  else.  Don't  be  romantic,  my  dear — you'll  not 
find  heroes  anywhere  now  except  in  Mudie's  novels.  Peter's  a 
clever  little  fellow,  as  I  said,  and  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
with  you." 

**A  clever  little  fellow!  A  clever  iittte  fellow,"  repeale*J 
Miss  Dangerfield,  with  intense  concentrated  scorn.  **Papa," 
with  dignity,  "a  few  minutes  ago  you  told  me  to  change  th? 
subject.  /  make  the  same  remark  now.  I  wouldn't  nijrrv 
your  clever  little  fellow  not  to  save  my  own  head  from  the  g^ 
lows  or  his  soul  from  perdition.  Sir  John,  1  consider  my^e^ 
doubly  insulted  this  morning  !  I  don't  wonder  you  sit  there 
excruciating  my  nerves  with  that  horrid  rattling  pai)er  and 
ashamed  to  look  me  in  the  face.  I  think  you  have  reason  to 
be  ashamed  !  Telling  your  only  child  and  heiress  she  couldn't 
do  better  than  throw  herself  away  on  a  pitiful  little  country 
lawyer,  only  five  feet  high,  and  with  the  countenance  of  a  rat. 
If  it  were  that  adorable  GastOii  Dantree  now.  Oh,  here's  the 
po&t.     Papa  1  papa  !  give  me  the  key." 

Miss  Dangerfield  forgetting  in  a  second  the  late  outrage 
tiered  her  by  her  cruel  parent  seized  the  key,  anlocked  th« 
bag,  and  plunged  in  after  its  contents. 

"  One — two — three — four !  two  for  me  from  India— one  fof 
JQKL  from  ditto,  in  Major  Trevanion's  big  slap-dash  fist,  and  this 
— Why,  pjipa,  what  lady  correspondent  can  you  have  in  Paris? 
What  an  elegant  Italian  hand !  what  thick  yellow  perfumed 
paper,  and  what  a  sentimental  seal  and  motto  !  Blue  wax  and 
'  p€fisez  di  mci^     }:i<ytf^  jmpa,  who  can  this  l>e  from  ?  " 

She  thxew  th«  leUci  -.txxoi,^  the  table.     Wilh  liei  iiist  woidi 


Ail/    JiKJHA. 


t$ 


lA 


\9 


? 


&ur  (acc  of  the  Indian  uf?iccr  hail  chang(^J    -a  hunie<]  look  ok 
absolute  terror  had  come  into  his  face. 

Hit  hands  tightened  over  tlie  paper,  his  eyes  tixcd  theniseivet 
o^H^n  the  dainty  missive  his  daughter  held  before  f  hem,  his  florid, 
healthful  color  faded — a  dull  grayish  whiteness  ^rept  over  hii 
face  from  brow  to  chin. 

*•  Papa  I "  Katherine  cried,  *'  you're  sick,  you're  gofn^  X9 
have  a  fit  I  Don't  tell  me  !  (an't  1  see  it  ?  Drink  this — cCinh 
tt  thii  moment  and  come  round  ! " 

She  held  a  glass  of  water  to  his  lips.  He  obeyed  mechani 
cady,  and  the  color  that  had  faded  and  tied,  slowly  crept  back 
to  his  bearded,  sun-browned  face.  "  There  !  "  said  Miss  Dan 
grrficld,  in  ^  .»atisticd  tone,  **  you  haif  come  round  !  And  now 
tell  me,  was  it  a  fit,  or  was  it  the  letter  ?  Tell  me  the  truth, 
sir ;  don't  prevaricate  ! " 

"  It  was  one  of  my  old  attacks,  K.alhie,  nothing  more.  You 
ought  to  be  used  to  ihem  by  this  time.  Notiiing  more,  1  give 
you  my  word.  Go  back  to  your  breakfast,  child,"  he  said  tes- 
tily, "and  don't  stand  staring  there  in  that  unconifortable  way  !" 

"My  opinion  is,  papa,'  resi)ondod  .Miss  Dani^erfield,  with 
gravity,  "  that  you're  in  a  bad  way  and  should  turn  your  attention 
immediately  from  the  roast  hct;f  of  old  England  to  water  grue' 
and  weak  tea.  A  fine*  old  Knglish  gentleman  of  your  time  o( 
day,  who  has  left  his  liver  behind  him  in  India,  and  who  has  a 
Sepoy  bullet  lodged  for  life  in  his  left  lung,  and  a  strong  ten- 
dency to  apople.x.y  besides,  ought  to  mind  what  he  eats  and 
drinks,  and  be  on  very  friendly  terms  with  the  nearest  clerg;/- 
inen.  Aren't  you  going  to  read  that  letter,  papa,  and  tell  me 
who  the  woman  is  who  has  the  presumption  to  write  to  you 
without  my  knowledge?  N^ow  where  are  you  going?"  For 
Sir  John  had  arisen  hastiiy,  iiis  letters  in  his  hand. 

"  To  my  study,  Kathie.      Finish  your  breakfa.st,  darkling,  an«' 
ion't  mind  me.''     He  stooped  dovvn  suddenly  and  kissed  her, 
(irith  jlmost  passionnie  tenderness.      "My  darling!    my  vlai 
UDg  I  "  he  said.     '•  Heaven  bless  and  keep  you  always,  what 
ever  happens — whatever  hap])cns." 

He  repeated  the  last  words  with  a  sort  of  anguish  in  h?.3 
voice,  then  turned  and  walked  out  of  tin.'  breakfast  parlor  be- 
fore his  very  much  amazed  dauiihter  could  speak. 

"Well!"  exclaimed  xMiss  Dangeriield  at  last,  "  this  does  cap 
the  universe,  doesn't  it?"  "iliis  quesliun  being  addressed  to 
vaca.ucy  recoivtid  no  leply.  "  There  s  a  my^ptery  here,  and  I 
doii't  Ukc  iiayfricdes  uui  of  :>eu;>aiiuu  novel*.     IliAve  uo^ccie«s 


i6 


KAlHJiKIi^JBL 


from  papa — svhat  business  has  papa  to  have  secrets  front 
me?" 

She  arose  with  an  injured  air,  gave  the  bell  a  vicious  piilV 
and  walked  in  ofTended  dignity  b&ck  to  her  room.  The  bioadli 
blacky  aiippery  oaken  staircase  went  up  in  majestic  cweepf  te 
ht  regions  above.  Miss  Dangerfield  ascended  it  slowlj  futd 
with  a  fticc  of  i>erplexed  thought. 

**  It  was  never  an  attack — ^don't  ^ell  me — it  was  that  nastf, 
vicious,  spidery  written  little  letter  !  Now  what  woman  wrote 
that  letter,  a/id  what  business  had  she  to  write  it  ?  I  shall  insist 
upon  papa  giving  me  a  full  explanation  at  dinner-time.  No 
woman  in  Paiis  or  any  other  wicked  city  shall  badger  my  pre- 
cious old  soldier  into  an  early  grave.  And  meantime  I  shall 
have  a  gallop  on  Ilderim  over  the  golden  Sussex  downs." 

She  entered  her  room  singing  the  song  the  handsome  tenor 
had  sung  at  the  concert  the  night  before,  the  melody  of  whose 
silver  voice,  tliC  drsky  fire  of  whose  eyes,  the  dark  foreign 
beauty  of  whose  face,  had  haunted  her  romantic  seventeen-year- 
old  mind  ever  smce. 

"  Rispoodia  a  chi  t*  implora  t 
Rispondia  a  ':ara  a  me  1 " 

"  How  handsome  he  was,  how  handsome — how  handsome  I 
If  ever  I  marry,  it  sha^l  be  a  man — a  derni-god  like  that.  P(^ter 
Dangerfield,  indeed  !  Nasty  little  bore  I  Still  I  would  rather 
have  him  in  love  with  nie  than  have  no  one  at  all.  1  wonder 
if  it  is  I,  myself,  he  loves,  or  Scarswood  Park,  and  the  heiresa 
of  eight  thousand  a  year.  Ninon  !  my  green  riding-habit,  and 
tell  them  to  fetch  Ilderim  around.  And  oh,  Ninon,  my  child,  tell 
that  tiresome  groom  I  </<7«7want  him  perambulating  behind  me, 
like  an  apoplectic  shadow.  Ilderim  and  I  can  take  care  oi 
TttTselves." 

**But,  mademoiselle — Seer  John's  orders — " 

** Ninon  Duclos,  will  you  do  as  /order  you?  I  won't  have 
she  groonv- -there  !  I'm  always  shocking  the  resident  gentiy 
>rf  this  neighborhood,  and  1  mean  to  go  on  shocking  them.  I 
1ie«i  as  if  I  had  a  spy  at  my  heels  while  that  beef-eating 
groom  is  there.  Help  rae  on  with  my  habit  and  say  no  mu^e 
about  it," 

Little  Ninon  knew  a  good  deal  better  than  to  dispute  Misa 
Oangerfieid's  mood  when  Miss  Daniievfield  snoke  in  that  tone. 
Miss  Dangerfield  had  boxed  her  ears  belort*  novv,  and  waic  very 
capable  of  doing  it  again.  Perhaps,  on  the  whole);  sniart  iTttlc 
NiuSfOa  rakker  liked  having  her  ears  uu^>oiuouJly  slapped  by  Lf^ 


KATffRRINE, 


*■> 


I> 


FY 
1 


Impulsive  young  mistress,  and  the  tingling  cuicd,  as  it  fnvariablf 
was,  by  the  present  of  Miss  Katherine's  second-best  silk  dreM 
balf-an-hour  after. 

Looki-.g  very  bright  and  dishing,  if  not  in  the  .east  pretty, 
the  heiress  of  Scarswood  Park  ran  lightly  down  the  slippery 
stairs,  out  of  the  vast  vaulted  hall,  where  statues  gleamed  ami 
soi's  of  nnail  worn  by  dead-and-g(ine  Dangeriields  centuries  b<^ 
fcre,  flashed  back  the  sunshine.  Her  dark -green  riding-habit 
Itted  her,  as  Katherine  herself  said  "  as  though  she  had  been 
bom  in  it," — the  waving  brightness  of  her  brown  hair  wai 
twined  in  thick  plaits  aronnd  her  graceful  head,  and  her  pork- 
pie  hat  with  its  scarlet  bird's  wing  perched  ever  so  little  on  one 
iide,  set  oflf  the  piqiiante  face  beneath — a  thoroughly  English 
face,  despite  the  golden  hue  of  a  tropic  sun. 

"  I  beg  your  parding,  miss,"  Roberts,  the  butler,  said,  step, 
ping  forward.  He  was  a  dignified,  elderly,  clerical- looking  per- 
•onage,  like  an  archbishop  in  silk  stockings  and  knee  breeches  ; 
"but  if  you  will  hexcuse  the  remarlc,  miss,  I  thinks  as  ow  we're 
going  to  'ave  a  storm.  There's  that  closeness  in  the  hair,  miss, 
and  that  happearance  in  the  hitmosphere  that  halways  per- 
ceeds  a  thunder-storm  ;  if  1  might  make  so  bold  miss,  I  should 
hadvise  you  not  to  stay  hout  more  than  a  hour,  at  the  furthest." 

"  Good  gracious,  Roberts,  what  nonsense  I  There's  not  a 
cloud  in  the  sky.  Oh,  well !  that  one  !  why  it's  no  bigger  than 
my  hand.  I'm  going  to  Castleford,  and  I  don't  believe  in  youi 
thunder-storms." 

"  You'll  catch  it,  though,  for  all  that,  my  young  lady,"  solilo- 
quized Mr.  Roberts,  looking  after  the  slight  girlish  figure  as  it 
dashed  out  of  sight  down  the  elm  avenue  mounted  on  a  spirited 
black  horse.  "  Great  stonns  'ave  come  from  clouds  no  bigger 
than  a  man's  'and  before  now.  But  yt  a're  a  young  persing 
that  won't  be  badvised,  and  you'll  come  to  grief  one  of  these 
days  through  'aving  too  much  of  your  own  way,  as  sure  as  my 
name's  Roberts." 

And  then  Mr.  Roberts  philosophically  went  back  to  th^ 
Outlefo^d  Chronicle^  and  never  dreamed  that  he  had  uttered  a 
frophecy. 

Miss  Dangerfield  dashed  away  over  the  breezy  Sussex  dowiui 
—gold-green  in  the  September  sunshine.  But  the  brilliance  ok 
that  sunlight  grew  dim  and  dimmer  with  every  passing  moment, 
and  looking  up  presently  she  saw  that  her  "  cloud  no  bigger 
than  a  man's  hand"  had  spread  and  darkened,  and  was  last 
f  looming  OT<?r  the  whoir  skv.     Old  Roberts  had  been  right  then, 


iS 


KATnERISE. 


i 


after  &11 ;  and  unless  she  stayed  at  Castleford,  or  tarned  back 
at  once,  she  was  in  for  a  drenching. 

"  I  wotit  turn  back  and  I  wotit  stop  at  Castleford,"  the  bai 
onet's  daughter  said,  setting  her  white  teeth.     "I'll  get  my 
books,  and  I'll  go  home,  and  Ilderim  and  I  shall  outrtrip  the 
lightning  after  all." 

She  dashed  into  the  town.  Castleford  was  a  military  depots 
Rnd  knots  of  red-coated  officers  grouped  here  and  there,  lowered 
thcii  crests,  and  gazed  after  her  with  admiring  eyes  as  she  flew 
by. 

**  Plucky  girl  that,"  said  Captain  Vere  de  Vere  of  the  Plung- 
ers Purple  to  his  friend  Captain  Howard  of  the  Bobtails  Blue. 
"  Gad  !  how  squarely  she  sits  her  saddle.  And  what  a  waltzer 
she  is — as  graceful  as  a  Parisicnne  ballerina,  and  as  springy. 
Comfortable  thing  there  waiting  for  some  lucky  beggar — clear 
eight  thousand  a  year,  and  strictly  entailed.  Not  a  handsome 
girl,  I  admit,  but  what  would  you  ?  Doosidly  clever,  too,  and 
ihafs  a  drawback.  I  hate  your  clever,  women — ]nit  a  fellow  out 
of  countenance,  by  Jove  !  Shouldn't  know  anything — women 
shouldn't,  beyond  the  three  great  feminine  arts,  dancing,  dress- 
ing, and  looking  pretty."  VVith  which  terse  summary  of  women 
duties  the  Honorable  Plantagenet  Vere  de  Vere  lit  his  huge 
manilla  and  sauntered  away.  "  She  seemed  uncommonly  sweet 
on  that  foreigner,  that  Creole  fellow  -what's  his  name — at  the 
concert  last  night,"  he  thought.  "It's  always  fellows  like  that- 
uith  tenor  voices  and  long  eyelashes,  that  draw  the  matrimo- 
nial prizes.  Heard  her  tell  Kdith  Talbot  last  night  all  the  offi, 
cers  at  Castleford  had  ginger  whiskers,  and  knew  no  more  how 
to  waltz  than  so  many  lively  young  elephants." 

Miss  Dangerfield's  errand  was  to  a  Castleford  bookseller's, 
and  her  order  was  for  all  the  newest  novels.  She  came  out 
presently,  followed  by  the  obsequious  shopman  carrying  h(;i 
parcel  and  bowing  his  thanks.  The  storm  was  very  near  now. 
The  whole  sky  was  dark — there  was  that  oppressive  heat  and 
stillness  in  the  air  that  usually  precedes  a  thunder-stonn. 

"  Coming  I "  Miss  Dangerfield  thought,  vaulting  into  her  sad- 
dle "  Now  then,  Ilderim,  my  beauty,  cri?  darUng,  outstrip  the 
•tonn  if  you  can  !  *' 

She  was  off  Uke  the  wind,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  town  lay 
far  behind  her.  ,^ut  fate  had  decreed  to  take  siJes  with  Rob 
erts. 

On  the  bare  downs,  treeless  and  houseless,  the  lightnirig 
'.eaped  out  like  a  two-edged  s^vurd      Therr  ciune  the  booming 


KATRERINE. 


«9 


the 


out 

h(;i 

low. 

ind 

sad- 
Ithe 

llay 
lob 


crash  of  thunder,  then  a  deluge  of  rain,  and  the  jnid-daj  8Ui» 
raer  tempest  was  upon  her  in  its  might.  The  swift,  sudden 
blaze  of  the  lightning  in  his  eyes  startled  the  ner\  ous  system  ol 
Ilderim.  He  toseed  his  little  black  Arabian  head  in  the  aii 
with  a  snort  of  tenor,  made  a  bound  forward  and  fled  over  th* 
g;tassy  plains  with  the  fpeed  f  *an  express  train. 

"  A  runaway,  by  Jove  ! " 

A  man  darted  forward  witl  :ht'  cry  upon  his  lips,  and  Biads 
frhc  agUe  spring  of  a  wild-c&  •  at  Ilderim's  bridle  rein.  A  mo* 
ment's  stniggle  and  then  the  spirited  Arab  stood  still  under  the 
grasp  of  an  iion  hand,  quivering  in  every  limb,  and  his  mis- 
tress, k)i;king  down  from  her  saddle,  met  full  two  of  the  most 
beauiifal  eyes  into  which  it  had  ever  been  her  good  fortune  to 
look. 

It  was  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree,  the  handsome,  silver-voiced 
tenor  of  last  night's  concert,  and  n  flash  of  glad  Kurprisr  lit  up 
her  face. 

"Mr.  Dantree  !*'  she  cried,  '*you  !  and  in  this  tempest,  and 
at  so  opportune  a  moment.  How  shall  I  thatik  you  for  save — 
for  rendering  me  such  very  timely  assistance  ?*' 

"  For  saving  my  life,"  she  had  been  going  to  say,  but  thai 
would  have  been  coming  it  a  little  too  strong.  Her  life  had 
not  been  in  the  smallest  danger — she  was  a  thorough  horse- 
toman,  and  could  have  managed  a  much  wilder  animal  than 
ilderim.  But  the  knight  to  the  rescue  was  Mr.  Dantree,  and 
last  night  Miss  Dangerfield  had  looked  for  the  first  time  into 
tliose  wondrous  eyes  of  gold-brown  light  and  fallen  straight  in 
love  with  their  owner. 

He  was  very  handsome ;  perfectly,  faultlessly  handsomcj 
with  an  olive  complexion,  a  low  forehead,  a  chiselled  nose,  a 
thick  black  mustache,  and  two  dark  almond  eyes,  of  "  liqui<l 
light"  Not  tall,  not  stout,  pDt  very  manly-looking,  perhaps, 
ki  any  way,  men  were  rathij  given  to  sneer  at  Mr.  Gaston 
Dantree' s  somewhat  effeminate  beauty.  But  they  never  sneere<i 
bng.  There  was  that  in  Mr.  Dantree' s  black  eyes,  in  Mr. 
Dantree's  musical  voice,  in  Mr.  Dantree's  trained  muscles,  that 
would  have  rendered  a  serious  difficulty  a  little  unpleasant  He 
look  off  his  hat  now,  despite  the  pouring  rain,  and  stood  befoie 
the  heiress  of  Scarswood,  looking  like  the  Apollo  himself  in  a 
iiubby  shooting  jacket. 

"  You  do  me  too  much  honor,  Miss  Dangerfield  ;  1  don't  really 
ihink  youi  lif?  was  in  any  danger — still  it's  pleasant  to  know 
/  wat  the  on«  to  stop  yov\r  black  steed  all  the  same.     Rathac 


20 


KA  TITER  MB. 


a  coincidence,  by  the  bye,  that  I  should  meet  ^oa  iiere  Juit  a< 

prt^sent,  as,  taking  advantage  of  last  nighf  s  kind  invitation,  \ 
vas  about  to  present  myself  at  Scarswood." 

"  And  Scarswood  is  very  well  w(  rLh  seeing,  I  assure  you. 
As  it  is  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  gates,  su(;ipos6 
fcm  resume  your  hat  amd  your  journey  ?  " 

''But,  Miss  Dangerfield,  you  will  get  your  death  at  this  ptiec: 
^  this  downpour." 

''  Oh,  no,  I'll  not,"  Katherine  answered  coolly.  "  The  rain 
will  never  fall  that  will  give  me  my  death  1  You  don't  know 
IJMW  strong  I  anL  Come,  Mr.  Dantree,  let  me  see  if  you  can 
walk  as  fast  as  Ilderim." 

She  looked  down  at  him  with  that  brilliant  smile  that  lit  her 
dark  face  into  something  brighter  than  beauty. 

"Come,  Mr.  Dantree,"  she  repeated,  "let  me  be  ciceront 
iw  once,  and  show  you  the  s|)lendors  of  Scarswood.  It  is  the 
■how  place  of  the  neighborhood,  you  know,  built  by  a  Danger- 
field,  I  am  afraid  to  s;  v  how  many  centuries  ago.  We  came 
over  with  William,  the  what's  his-name,  you  know,  or,  perhaps, 
William  found  us  here  when  he  amved  :  I'm  not  positive  which. 
We're  a  dreadfullv  old  family,  indeed,  and  I'm  the  last  daughter 
of  the  race  :  and  I  wouldn't  be  anvbody  but  Katherine  Dan- 
gerfield, c  ^  Scarswood  Park,  for  the  world  I " 

^e  dasned  under  the  huge  stone  arch  of  masonry  as  she 
apoke,  half  laughing,  wholly  in  earnest.  She  was  proud  of  the 
old  blood  that  flowed  so  spiritedly  in  her  veins,  of  this  noble 
mansion,  of  the  princely  inheritance  which  was  her  birthright 

"Welcome  to  Scarswood,  Mr.  Dantree,"  she  said,  as  he 
passed  bv  her  side  under  the  Norman  arch. 

He  raised  his  hat 

"Thank  you.  Miss  Dangerfield,"  he  said  gravely;  and  so» 
itill  by  her  side,  walked  up  the  drippling  elm  avenue  and  into 
the  house. 

His  fatal  beauty — fatal,  though  he  was  but  seven-and-twenty, 
to  many  women — had  done  its  work  once  more.  Her  own 
band  had  brought  him  there,  her  own  voice  had  spoken  het 
•entence.  Gaston  Dantree  stood  under  the  roof  of  Scarswood 
Hall,  and;  until  her  dying  hour,  this  day  would  stand  out  dis- 
tinct from  all  other  days  in  Katherine  Dangerfield's  life. 

Sir  John  sat  in  his  library  alone,  that  letter  from  Paris  still 
cmshed  in  his  hand  as  though  it  had  been  a  serpent.  It  seemed 
a  very  karralcss  seipcnt  at  first  sight ;  it  only  contained  the^o 
lines,  written  in  an  elegant,  flowing  Italian  chirograph;^  : 


'X 


FATHER  INR. 


21 


"?AKis,  SeptcMber  J13. 

*«  Mt  Dba&  Sir  John  Dangerfikld  :  How  driightedlj  my  pei 
irrites  th«  title  I  A  baronet  !  Who  wouUi  have  thought  it  ?  And  Scars- 
irood  Park  is  yonrs,  and  your  income  is  clear  eight  thousand  a  year.  Wb« 
could  have  hoped  it  ?  And  you're  back  in  Englanii,  and  la  p^tite-^the  lii- 
tk  Katherine.  Darling  little  Katherine  I  So  full  of  spirit  and  !>elf-t».5', 
as  she  was  when  I  saw  her  last,  and  that  is  fiftein  years  ago.  Ab,  voaz 
dieu  1  fifteen  we\-ry,  weary,  weary  years.  My  dear  baronet,  I  am  c«w>ir* 
to  see  you  ;  I  Jknew  you  will  be  enchanted.  On  the  third  of  October  yc-a 
will  send  your  carriage  to  Castlcford  Station  to  meet  the  7.20  London  ex- 
press and  me.  And  your  servant  will  ask  for  Mrs.  Vavasor.  I  adapt  my 
■ames  as  I  do  my  conversation,  to  my  company ;  and,  among  the  aristO' 
cratic  county  families  of  Sussex,  let  me  l)e  aristocratic,  too.  Adieu,  my 
batimet,  for  the  present ;  and  allow  me  to  subscribe  myself  by  the  old  and, 
•las  1  plebeian  cognomen  of  Harrikt  II  arm  an. 

**  P.  S. — Tell  my  pet,  Katherine,  I  am  coming.  Kiss  the  darling  child 
for  —  " 


80» 


us- 

^till 

led 


-m 


He  had  s-at  for  hours  as  he  sat  now,  that  letter  crushed  in  his 
hand,  a  ^a)dsh  pallor  on  his  face,  his  eyes  looking  blankly  out 
at  the  drifting  rain,  at  the  tossing,  wind-blown  trees.  The  light- 
ning leaped  forth  at  intervals,  the  summer  thunder  broke  over 
the  roof,  the  summer  rain  beat  on  the  glass.  He  neither  saw 
nor  heard  ;  he  sat  like  a  man  stunned  by  a  great  and  sudden 
blow. 

"  And  I  thought  her  dead,"  he  muttered  once.  "  I  ho/gJ 
she  was  dead.  I  thought,  after  fifteen  years'  silence,  I  was 
safe ;  and  now — oh,  God !  will  the  wicked  wish  never  be 
granted  ?  " 

He  sat  there  still  as  he  had  sat  since  he  left  the  breakfast 
table,  when  the  door  was  flung  wide,  and  Katherine,  dripping 
like  a  mermaid,  stood  before  him. 

"  May  I  come  in,  papa,  or  have  you  fallen  asleep  ?  Do  you 
know  it  is  two  o'clock,  and  past  luncheon  time,  and  that  I 
have  brought  home  a  guest  ?  It's  Mr.  Dantree,  papa — you  re- 
member him,  you  know — and  he  wanr^  to  see  the  house,  and 
/vrzntytm  to  be  civil  to  him.  He's  in  the  blue  drawing-room  ; 
and  while  I'm  changing  my  habit  I  wish  you  would  go  up  and 
«ntertain  him.  Papa!"  She  broke  off  suddenly,  catchi ri^ 
bight  of  his  altered  face.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  You  loo* 
l>ke  vour  own  ghost ! " 

He  rose  up  stiffly,  as  if  his  limbs  were  cramped,  crushing  lh«» 
letter  02ore  tightly  still  in  his  hand.  He  turned  away  from  th- 
»in«iow,  so  that  his  face  was  hidden  from  her,  as  he  ariswer^"; 

'•  I  ain  a  little  cold.     Who  did  you  say  was  waiting.  Ks:  ..  r. 


r 


ta 


MJtS.    VAVASOR 


Ine  ?  Oh,  yes ;  the  singing  man — Gaston  liantree.  By  Iha 
bye,  twathie,  tell  Harrison  to  prepare  one  of  the  front  chamber* 
for  a — a  ladv — an  old  friend  of  mine — who  is  coming  to  visit 
nfl.  She  will  be  here  on  the  evening  of  the  third  of  Octobei 
iMit|  and  her  name  is  Mrs.  Vavasoc." 


CHAPTER  IL 


MKS.   VAVASOR. 


{HE  I^ndon  express,  due  at  Castlefoid  station  at  7.ao, 
rushed  in  with  an  unearthly  shriek,  like  Sinbad's  black 
monster,  with  the  one  red,  fiery  eye.  There  were  five 
passengers  for  the  town — four  men  and  a  woman. 
The  train  disgorged  them  and  then  fl' d  away,  shrieking  once 
more,  into  the  black  October  night. 

A  wet  and  gusty  autumn  evening,  a  black  and  starless  sky 
frowning  down  upon  a  black  and  sodden  earth.  A  bitter  blast 
blew  up  from  the  sea,  and  whirled  the  dead  leaves  in  drifts  be- 
fore it.  The  station,  dreary  and  isolated,  as  it  is  in  the  nature 
of  stations  to  be,  looked  drearier  than  ever  to-night.  Far  orf 
the  lamps  of  the  town  glimmered  athwart  the  rain  and  fog, 
specks  of  light  in  the  eerie  gloom. 

The  four  male  passengers  who  had  quitted  the  train  hurried 
with  their  portmanteaus,  buttoned  to  the  chin,  and  with  hats 
slouched  forward  over  their  noses — honest  shopkeepers  of 
Castleford,  but  looking  villanously  brigandish  in  the  light  of 
the  station  lamps.  Only  the  female  passenger  remained,  and 
>  she  came  tripping  ap  the  platform  with  a  little  satchel  in  her 
hand,  crisp  and  smiling,  to  the  chief  station  official. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ;  but  can  you  tell  me  if  the  caniagf 
from  Sciurswood  Park  is  waiting  for  me  ?  " 

She  was  a  beautiful  little  woman.  Two  great  dark  eyes  of 
lustrous  light  beamed  up  in  the  official's  face,  and  a  smfle  that 
lit  up  the  whole  station  with  its  radiance  dazzled  him.  She  had 
faathery  black  ringlets — she  had  a  brilliant  high  color — well,  a 
trifle  Uw  high,  probably,  for  some  fastidious  tastes — she  had 
teeth  white  and!  more  gliatening  than  anything  the  official  had 
fyrsi  jw»rn  outbid*  a  dentist's  show-case -—she  had  the  tinieist  lit* 


^^. 


BtJtS.    VAVASOM, 


23 


By  lh« 
hamben 
I  to  visit 
Octobef 


n  at  1.20y 
id's  black 
were  five 
I  woman. 
Ling  once 

arless  sky 
itter  blast 

drifts  be- 

le  nature 

Far  of! 

and  fog, 

hurried 

Iwith  hats 

jpers  of 

light  of 

Ined,  and 

lei  in  her 

camagf 

eyes  of 

le  that 
I  She  had 

-well,  a 
Uhe  had 
Icial  ha^i 

iic5t  Ut- 


ile figure  in  the  world,  and  she  had — as  far  as  the  3f!icial  could 
)udge,  for  the  glitter  of  her  whole  appearance — some  three-and- 
thirty  years.  With  the  flash  of  her  white  teeth,  the  sparkle  of 
the  black  eyes,  the  glow  of  the  rose-red  cheeks,  she  daxzlad 
you  like  a  sudden  burst  of  sunlight,  and  you  never  stopped  to 
think  until  afterward  how  sharp  and  rasping  was  the  voice  i» 
which  she  addressed  you. 

The  carriage  from  Scarswood  ?  No,  it  had  not — that  is  \ii 
My  the  official  did  not  know  whether  it  had  or  not. 

Would  the  lady  be  pleased  to  sit  down  ?  there  was  a  fire  ui 
here,  and  he  would  go  and  ascertain. 

"  I  certainly  expected  to  find  it  waiting,"  the  littie  lady  said, 
tripping  lightly  after  him.  "  Sir  John  knows  I  am.  coming  to- 
night. He  is  such  an  old  friend  of  mine — Sir  John.  It's  odd 
now  the  carriage  isn't  waiting — tell  them  when  they  do  come, 
Mrs.  Vavasor  is  here." 

"  The  carriage  has  come,"  announced  the  official  on  the  mo- 
ment.    "  This  way,  madame,  if  you  please." 

Tlie  close  carriage,  its  lamps  glowing  like  two  red  eyes  in 
the  darkness,  its  horses  pawing  the  ground,  its  coachman  stiff 
and  surly  on  the  box,  was  drawn  up  at  the  station  door.  The 
official  held  the  door  open — she  thanked  him  with  a  radiant 
smile,  and  then  Sir  John  Dangerfield's  carriage  was  fljring 
through  the  darkness  of  the  wet  October  night  over  the  muddy 
high  road  to  Scarswood  Park.  Little  Mrs.  Vavasor  wiped  the 
blurred  glass,  and  strained  her  bright  black  eyes  as  the  vehicle 
whirled  up  the  avenue,  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  house. 
It  loomed  up  at  last,  a  big  black  shadow  in  the  darkness. 
Lights  gleamed  all  along  its  front  windows,  and  the  distant 
sound  of  music  floated  out  into  the  night.  Mrs.  Vavasor's 
fascinating  face  was  at  its  brightest — the  sparkle  in  her  eyes 
sparkled  more  than  ever. 

"  A  party — a  ball  perhaps.  Let  me  see,  the  third  of  Octo 
W — why  la  petitds  birthday,  of  course.  Miss  Dangerfieldi 
Heiress  of  Scarswood,  is  just  seventeen  to-night.  How  stupid 
«f  me  to  forget  it."  She  laughed  in  th^  darkness  and  solitude, 
a  littie  low  laugh  not  pleasant  to  hear.  "  I  wonder  how  poor 
<iear  Sir  John  will  meet  me,  and  what  account  he  will  give  of 
me  to  his  daughter  ?  It  couldn't  have  been  pleasant  for  htm 
to  receive  my  note.  I  dare  say  by  this  time  he  thought  m« 
dead." 

She  stepped  out  a  moment  in  the  rain,  then  into  ^Jie  lighted 
restibiile,  then  into  the  spacious  entrance  hall  where  Mrs.  Harw 


MXS.   VAVASOlt, 


rison,  in  a  gray  itilk  gowii  and  white  lace  cap,  and  all  the  dif 
nity  of  house-keeper,  met  her  courtesy. 

"Mrs.  Vavasor,  I  think,  ma'am?" 

Mrs  Vavasor's  enchanting  smile  answered  in  the  affinnadve. 

"  Sii  John's  orders  are  every  attention,  ma'am,  and  he  waj 
Co  be  told  the  minute  you  arrived.  This  way,  if  you  please; 
and  you're  to  wait  here,  ma'am,  until  he  comes  to  yoa" 

She  led  the  way  upstairs,  and  threw  open  the  door  of  a  hai^ 
!it,  elegant  apartment,  all  bright  with  upholstery,  curtains,  aiio 
rarpet  of  blue  and  gold. 

"  How  very  nice,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  remarked,  glancing  pleas- 
antly around ;  "  and  you  are  the  housekeeper,  1  suppose,  my 
good  soul  ?  And  your  young  lady  is  having  a  party  on  her 
birth-night  ?  How  pleasant  it  must  be  to  be  only  seventeen, 
and  handsome,  and  rich,  and  a  baronet's  daughter." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed  that  sharp  little  laugh  of  hers  that 
rather  grated  on  sensitive  ears. 

"  Miss  Dangerfield  is  handsome,  no  doubt,  Mrs.— —ah — " 

'*  Harrison,  ma'am,"  the  housekeeper  responded,  rather  stiffly. 
"  And  Misj  Kalherine  is  very  'andsome,  indeed,  in  my  eyes. 
I'll  tell  Sir  John  you're  here,  ma'am,  at  once,  if  you'll  please  sit 
down." 

But  it  pleased  Mrs.  Vavasor  to  stand — she  turned  up  the 
lamps  until  the  room  was  flooded  with  light,  then  walked  over 
to  a  full-length  mirror  and  looked  at  herself  steadily  and  long. 

"  Fading ! "  she  said  :  "  fading !  Rouge,  French  coitfurefi^ 
enamel,  belladonna,  and  the  rest  of  it  are  very  well;  but  they 
can't  make  over  a  woman  of  thirty-seven  into  a  girl  of  twenty. 
Still,  considering  the  life  I  ve  led" — she  set  her  teeth  like  a  lit- 
tle lion-dog.  "  Ah,  what  a  bitter  fight  the  battle  of  life  ha3 
been  for  me  !  If  I  were  wise  I  would  pocket  my  wrongs,  forego 
my  vengeance,  keep  my  secret,  and  live  happy  in  Scars  wood 
liail  forever  after.  I  wonder  if  Sir  John  would  marry  me  if  I 
4sked  him  ?  " 

The  door  opened  and  Sir  John  came  in.  Little  Mrs.  Vavar 
tor  turned  round  from  the  glass,  folded  her  small  hands,  and 
»tood  and  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  on  her  face. 

He  was  very  pale,  and  grim  as  the  grave.  So  for  a  moment 
they  stood,  like  two  duelists  waiting  for  the  word,  in  dead  si- 
lence.    Then  the  lady  spoke : 

"  How  do  you  do,  Sir  John  ?  \^  hen  we  parted  I  remembe! 
you  found  me  admiring  myself  in  the  glass ;  when  we  meei 
ftgaiiv  afte»*  ^©en  yearv — IXnt  f  how  c:^A  it  m^Jies  one  feel— - 


l,K 


^:' 

'"«•■;' 


MAS.    ^i^^/i^'lM. 


^5 


1  th«  dig 


&niiadTe. 
d  he  W2J 
>u  pleas?; 
l" 

ofahftl/  ' 
LainSf  ano 

ing  pleas- 
>po&e,  my 
ty  on  her 
eventeen, 

hers  that 

—  ah—'* 
her  stiffly. 

my  eyes. 

please  sit 

:d  up  the 
liked  over 
nd  long, 
coitfurefi, 
but  they 
f  twenty, 
like  a  lit- 
life  ha3 
;s,  forego 
arswoo^! 
me  if  I 

I.  Vavar 
and 

moment 

dead  si- 

^membet 

^e  mce; 

je  feeV- 


I 


you  f:nd  iiie  before  the  glasi  'igain.  Not  aviiiiinng  iii}^elf  thji 
time,  you  understand.  1  s»idly  fear  I  !idve  j^rown  olii  and  ugly 
in  all  those  hard-fought  years.  Hut  you — you're  not  a  day 
older,  and  just  the  same  handsome,  stalwart  soldier  I  remember 
you.  Won't  you  shake  hands  for  the  sake  of  old  tijTies,  Sii 
Johu^  and  say  *  you  are  welcome '  to  a  poor  little  woman  whi» 
ras  tiavelled  all  the  way  from  Paris  to  see  you?  " 

She  held  out  her  little  gloved  hand.  He  drew  away  with  t 
rj,5fture  of  repulsion,  and  crossing  to  the  chimney-piece  leaneci 
•spon  it,  his  face  hard  and  set,  in  the  light  of  the  lamps. 

"  Why  have  yc-   come  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

**  Ah,  Cielf  hear  him  ! — such  a  cruel  question.  And  afte> 
fifteen  years  I  stand  J\  alone  in  this  big,  pitiless  world,  a  poo» 
little  friendless  woman,  and  1  come  to  the  gallant  gentlemal 
who  fifteen  years  ago  stood  my  friend — such  a  friend — and  he 
asks  me  in  that  cruel  voice  why  1  have  come  1 " 

"  That  will  do,  Mrs.  Vavasor — this  is  not  a  theatre,  nor  am  I 
an  appreciative  audience.  Tell  me  the  truth,  if  you  can — let 
us  have  plain  speaking.  Why  have  you  come  here  ?  What 
do  you  want?" 

"  That  is  plain  language  certainly.  1  have  come  here  be 
cause  you  are  in  my  power — absolutely  and  wholly  in  my 
power.  And  I  want  to  stay  here  as  an  honored  guest  just  as 
long  as  I  please.  Is  that  plain  enough  to  satisfy  you,  or  would 
you  like  me  to  put  it  still  plainer  ?" 

Her  deriding  black  eyes  mocked  him,  her  incessant  smile  set 
his  teeth  on  edge.  Hatred — abhorrence — were  in  his  eyes  aa 
he  looked  at  her. 

'*You  want  money,  I  suppose?  Well,  you  shall  have  k, 
though  I  paid  you  your  [)rice  long  ago,  and  you  promised  to 
'.Touble  me  no  more.  But  you  can't  stay  here ;  it  is  simply 
JEOpossible." 

"  It  is  simply  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  have  come  to  stay — 
my  luggage  is  down  yonder  in  the  hall,  and  you  will  tell  then) 
presently  to  fetch  it  up  and  show  me  to  my  room.  I  do  want 
^oney — yes,  it  is  the  universal  want,  and  I  mean  to  have  it. 
fjiii^t  thousand  a  year  and  Scarswood  Park,  one  of  the  finest 
seats  in  Sussex.  And  such  an  old  family  ! — baronets  created 
by  James  the  First,  and  knights  centuries  and  centuries  before  I 
How  proud  your  daughter  must  feel  of  her  ancient  name  and 
tiaeage  1 "  And  Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed  aloud,  her  tinkling  laugh 
&at  struck  sluilly  on  hypersensitive  ears. 

**  YoH  will  leave  my  daughter's  name  out  of  the  question,  if 


26 


Al/tS.    VAVASOM. 


jK#u  please/'  the  baronet  retorted  haughtily  ;  "  such  lii>»  as  ymiri 
•wily  her  naino  If  you  h.id  one  spark  of  womanly  feeling, 
one  grain  of  self-respect  hift  from  the  life  you  have  led,  a 
woman's  heart  in  your  breast,  yon  vvould  never  coaie  near  her, 
hi  Heaven's  name  go  -I  will  give  you  anything,  anything,  only 
don't  insist  upon  staying  hero." 

For  answer  she  walked  back  to  the  mirror,  and  deliberate'^} 
b^an  removing  her  bonnet,  gloves,  and  mantle. 

"As  1  intend  goinc  down  and  joining  your  party  presently, 
and  being  introduced  to  die  county  families,  I  think  I  will  go 
up  to  my  room  at  once,  if  yon  please,  Sir  John.  By  the  way,  is 
Mi.  Peter  Dangerfield  one  of  your  guests  on  this  happy  occa- 
sion ?  It  strikes  nie  now  1  sh<7u1d  like  to  know  him.  He  is 
your  only  brother's  only  son  and  heir  in-law — after  your 
daughter,  of  course.  How  awkward  for  that  young  gentleman 
you  should  have  a  daughter  at  all.  And  the  estate  is  strictly 
entailed  to  the  nearest  of  kin ^  There  was  a  gleam  of  almost 
dangerous  malice  in  her  eyes  as  she  turned  from  the  mirror 
**  Ves,  I  am  really  anxious  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Mr, 
Peter  Dangerfield." 

He  turned  almost  livid — he  made  a  step  towards  her. 

"  You  would  not  dare,"  he  said  huskily ;  "  you  wretch  I     You 
#ould  not  dare — " 

"  I  would  dare  anything  except  being  late  for  Miss  Danger- 
field  s  birth-night  party.  Just  seventeen  I  a  charming  age,  and 
an  heiress,  and  a  beauty,  no  doubt  ?  Ah  !  what  a  contrast  to 
my  waning  youth.  I  grow  melancholy  when  I  think  of  it  1 
was  seventeen  once,  too.  Sir  John,  though  to  look  at  me  now 
you  mightn't  believe  it.  Ring  the  bell,  please,  and  let  that  nice 
•Id  creature,  your  housekeeper,  show  me  to  my  room.  And 
when  Pm  ready — say — at  ten  o'clock — you  will  come  for  roc 
here,  and  present  me  to  your  guests.  No,  really,  baronet— >fiot 
RMothei  word  to-night  on  that  subject.  These  serious  matten 
A:e  so  exhausting;  and  remember  I've  been  travelling  all  day 
Kmg  the  bell." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  obeyed.     The  look  of  a  hunt 
ed  animal  was  in  his  eyes,  and  she  stood  tliere  mocking  hin 
to  his  face.     It  seemed  about  as  unequal  a  contest  as  a  battle 
between  a  huge  Newfoundland  and  a  Uttle  King  Charles,  and 
the  Kinff  Charles  had  the  victory  this  time. 

Mrs.  Harrison  audwered  the  bell  \  ia  the  biief  interval  IM 
W€sd  bad  be«n  ^^>«iiesL 


MRS,  VAVASOR, 


^ 


**  You  will  ihow  Mrs.  Vavasor  to  her  room,"  Sir  John  tmld 

iihortly  and  f  ternly,  turning  to  go. 

♦*  And  I  will  be  dressed  by  ten,  and  you  will  call  for  me 
tc:e,"  rr«po.ided  Mrs.  Vavasor  gayly,  over  her  shoulder. 
♦*  How  fortunate  I  have  been  in  not  missing  the  opportunity  of 
oflering  my  congratulations  to  Miss  Dangerfield." 

And  then  humming  a  gay  French  air,  Mrs.  Vavasor  followed 
th*?  housekeeper  up  another  broad  oaken  stain^'ay,  along  a 
car|x:ted  corridor  and  into  a  velvet-hung  chamber,  bright  with 
firelight  and  waxlight,  luxurious  with  cushions,  chairs,  and 
lounges,  fragrant  with  hot-house  flowers, and  rich  with  pictures. 

•*  Your  trunks  arc  in  the  wardrobe  adjoining,  ma'am,"  Mrs. 
Harrison  said  :  •'  and  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  or  if  Misi 
Katherine's  maid — " 

"You  good  creature  !"  Mrs.  Vavasor  answered.  "  No,  I 
am  my  own  maid — I  haven't  eight  thousand  a  year,  you  know, 
like  your  darling  Miss  Kt^  trine,  and  can't  afford  luxuries. 
Thanks,  very  much,  and — good-night;"  and  then  the  door 
closed  gently  in  the  housekeeper's  face,  the  key  was  turned 
and  Sir  John's  guest  was  alone. 

She  stood  and  looked  round  the  room  with  a  smile,  that 
uicessant  smile  that  grew  just  a  trifle  wearisome  after  the  first 
half  hour  or  so. 

In  the  golden  gleam  of  the  light  the  tall  mirrors  flashed,  th^ 
carpet  looked  like  a  green  bank  of  June  roses,  the  silken 
uraperies  shimmered,  and  the  exotics  in  their  tall  glasses  per- 
tumed  t.ie  warm  air.  Outside  the  rain  beat,  and  the  wind 
Mew.  and  the  '*  blackness  of  darkness"  reigned.  She  listened 
10  the  wild  beating  of  the  storm  in  the  park  with  a  little  deli- 
cious shiver. 

*'  Is  it  like  my  life  ?"  she  said  softly.  '•  Have  I  come  out 
01  the  ram,  and  the  wind,  and  the  night,  to  the  roses,  and  wax- 
iights,  and  music  of  existence  ?  Or  is  the  gypsy,  vagabond 
instinct  too  strong  in  me,  and  will  the  roses  fade,  and  their 
perfume  sicken,  and  the  lights  grow  dim,  and  I  throw  it  all 
up  some  day,  and  go  back  to  the  old  freedom  and  outlawry 
once  more  ?  The  cedar  palace  and  purple  robes  of  the  king 
look  very  inviting,  but  I  think  I  would  rather  have  the  tents 
of  Bohemia,  with  their  freedom,  and  the  star.^  shining  through 
the  canvas  roof." 

An  hour  late/  there  descended  to  the  long  drawing-room, 
a  lady — a  stranger  to  all  there.  She  apf>eared  iu  their  midift 
AS  suddenly  as  though  ihe  had  dropped  from  the  »iny  wklio^ 


MRU.  yAyASOH, 


A  chamiing  little  vision,  in  amber  silk  and  Chantilly  flouncen, 
and  diamonds,  and  creamy  roses  in  her  floatinjj  feathery  black 
hair.  A  little  lady  whose  cheeks  outshone  all  rose8,and  whoM 
eyes  outflashed  her  diamonds,  and  whom  Sir  John  Dangerfteld 
introduced  to  his  guests  as  Mrs.  Vavasor. 

Who  was  Mis.  Vavasor? 

Women  looked  at  her  askance — the  stamp  of  adventnitM 
was  on  her  face  and  raiment. 

The  rouge  was  artistic,  but  it  was  rouge  ;  the  aml)er  silk 
was  shabby,  the  Chantilly,  a  very  clever  imitation,  the  dia- 
monds Palais  Royal  beyond  doubt.  And  then  Sir  John  waa 
so  pale, so  gloomy — the  old  soldier,not  used  to  society  masks, 
showed  his  troul)lc  ail  too  plainly  in  his  pertulbed  face. 

A  woman  not  of  their  order — and  the  ladies*  bows  werf 
frigid  and  chilling  as  the  baronet  presented  her. 

But  the  men — what  did  they  know  of  shabby  silks  and 
brownish  laces.  They  saw  a  brilliant  little  fairy  of — well  fiv»» 
and-twenty  summers,  perhaps — by  lamplight — with  the  eye« 
and  teeth  of  a  goddess. 

"  l)Ut,Miss  Dangerfield, Sir  John — Miss  Dangerfield  !  Misi 
Dani^oiikld  !"  Mrs.  Vavasor  cried,  tapping  him  playfully 
v/itli  her  fan  ;  '*  those  people  are  not  the  rose,  though  they 
have  come  to-night  to  do  honor  to  that  gorgeous  flower.  I  am 
dying  to  behold  Miss  Dangerfield." 

The  sionny  blue  eyes  of  the  Indian  officer  flashed  ;  he 
gnawed  his  mustache,  with  an  oath  only  heard  by  the  lady  on 
his  arm.     Her  shrill  laugh  answered  it. 

*♦  For  shame.  Sir  John  !  So  ill-bred,  too  !  And  that  face  ! 
You  look  like  the  Death's-head  the  Egyptians  used  to  have 
at  their  banquets.     What  will  people  say  ?     There^  [  sec 
•  her — 1  see  her  !  that  is  Katherine.*' 

I     She  stopped  short,  still  holding  Sir  John's  arm,  and  a  vi?id 
i  light  came  into  her  black  eyes.     The  baronet's  daughter 
was  advancing  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree. 

''  Katherinc,"  her  father  said,  bringing  out  every  word  witb 
a  husky  eUort,  '*  this  is  Mrs.  Vavasor,  a  very  old  fri — 
acquaintance."  If  his  life  had  been  at  stake,  he  could  not 
have  said  "  friend."  "  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  her  ; 
»he  is  our  guest  for  the  present." 

He  turned  abruptly,  and  walked  away. 

Katiienne  Dangerfield  held  out  her  hand — for  the  first,  the 
%i  St  time — 10  her  father' s  acquaintance.  Their  eyes  met,  and 
6ia  Uk^  oLjy  uctiiuigoi,  p«tf haps,  vn  all  h£x  sevea-aiul-Uurty  years 


\ 


A/A'S.    rjl\lSi)A'. 


29 


louncei, 
ry  black 
lu  whoM 
igerl^eld 


entmtff 

}>eT  silk 
:he  dia- 
ohn  vvaa 
masks, 
ce. 
vs  werf 

iks  and 
ell  fiv©. 
tie  eyea 

!  Misf 
ayfully 
^h  they 
lam 

;  he 
idy  on 

face ! 
have 
I  see 

ghtct 

witb 
tri — 
not 
ber : 


the 
and 

eara 


of  life,  those  of  tlic  fill  I  vvoiuati  fell.  The  hiiglu  >;r.iy 
eves  of  tile  pjirl  lookcnl  straijjjht  thioujjjh  iier,  aiul  dis- 
trusfod  .111(1  disliked  her  with  iliat  tirst  Ljlance. 

"  My  (adier'i  firienils  arvi  always  welcome  to  Scarswood.'' 
She  said  it  very  briefly  and  coldly.  *'  May  I  beg  of  you  t9 
eijTusc  me  now,  I  am  engaged  for  this  waltz  to  Mr.  Dantrec." 

She  was  looking  her  best  to-night  and  almost  pretty  ;  l-iit 
thsn  "almost"  is  a  very  wide  word. 

She  wore  pink  tissiie,  that  lloated  about  her  like  a  rosy  mist, 
^ritli  here  and  there  a  touch  of  priceless  old  ^Hjint,  and  a  tiny 
duster  of  fairy  roses.  She  had  pearls  on  her  neck,  and  gleam- 
uig  through  her  lovely  auburn  hair,  a  rich  tea  rose  nestling  in 
Uh  silken  brown. 

vS'ie  looked  graceful ,  she  looked  unspeakably  patncian ; 
she  carried  herself  like  a  young  prince^is.  And  the  vivid  light 
in  M*«.  Vavasor's  black  eyes  grew  brighter  as  she  watched  her 
float  at* ay. 

"Sht  has  her  mothei'g  face,"  she  whispered  to  herself; 
"she  ha*  her  mother's  voice— and  I  hate  her  fo:  her  mother's 
sake  I  A  home  in  Scarswood  forever,  the  fleshiK)ts  of  Kgypt, 
the  purplo.  and  fine  linen  of  high  life,  would  be  very  pleasant 
things,  bui  revenge  is  pleasanter  still." 

One  of  i.ie  gentlemen  to  whom  she  had,  at  her  own  special 
request,  bec.i  mtroduced,  came  up,  as  she  stood,  and  solicited 
the  pleasure  of  a  waltz. 

"  I  am  sure  you  can  waltz,"  he  said  :  '•  I  can  always  tell,  by 
some  sort  ot  i'trpsichorean  instinct,  I  suppose,  when  a  lady  is, 
or  is  not,  a  walizor." 

Mr.  Peter  Daugerfield  was  right  at  least  in  this  particulaf 
instance;  Mrs.  Vavasor  waltzed  like  a  fairy — like  a  French 
,  fairy,  at  that 

She  and  the  barone  ( ,;  daughter  whirled  past  each  other  more 
than  once — Katherine  «fith  her  brown  hair  floating  in  a  per- 
^imed  cloud,  her  lips  bre  ithless  and  apart,  and  her  bright  eyea 
laughing  in  her  partner's  Lee. 

"Is  she  in  love  with  that  very  handsoaae  young  man,  I  won- 
der?" Mrs.  Vavasor  thought;  "and  is  he  rich,  and  in  love 
with  ^erf  If  so,  then  my  plan  of  vengeanc*  may  be  frustrated 
yet." 

"Mr.  Dargerfield,"  to  her  partner,  "please  tell  me  tho 
Dame  of  that  gentleman  with  whom  Miss  Dangerfield  is  danc* 
toif  ?    It  strikes  me  I  have  sonaewhere  seen  his  face  before." 

"Not  unlikely,  he's  been  everywhere.     Hia  oapm  ia  GaatOB 


50 


JUJaS.    V'AP'ASQIi. 


Daniree,  aud  he  is,  I  believe,  a  native  of  the  State  of  ^iOsSa 
iaiuL" 

"  An  American  1  He  is  very  rich,  then — all  'I^ioAe  AiCBsj 
leans  are  rich." 

"  Dantree  is  not.  By  his  own  showing,  he  l8  poor  as  i 
church-mouse ;  his  only  wealth  is  his  Grecian  profile  and  hi« 
tenor  voice."  There  was  just  a  tinge  of  bitterness  in  his  tone 
%s  he  looked  after  the  handsome  Southerner  and  his  partner. 

"  '  M7  fiuM  is  tny  fortuoc,  sir.  ahe  aaid.' " 

bummed  gayly  Mrs.  Vavasor.  "  How,  then,  comes  monsieui 
to  be  here,  and  evidently  nrst  favorite  in  the  regards  of  Si-. 
John's  heiress  ?  " 

"  His  handsome  face  and  Jiuisiciil  tenor  again.  Miss  j)*n 
jer6«?ld  met  him  at  a  concert,  not  ihree  weeks  ago,  and  behold 
Uie  result !  We,  poor  devils,  minus  classic  noses,  arched  eye- 
brows, and  the  voices  of  archangels,  stand  out  at  the  cold  and 
gaze  afar  off  at  him  in  Paradise." 

"  Does  Sir  John  like  it  ?  " 

"  Sir  John  will  like  whatever  his  daughter  likes.  An;-  hunxafl 
creatiue  persistent  enough  can  do  whai  they  please  with  Sii 
John.     For  his  daughter  he  is  her  abject  slave." 

The  bitterness  w^as  bitterer  than  ever  in  Mr.  Peter  Danger' 
field's  voice ;  evidently  tlie  heiress  of  Scarswood  and  her  hand 
some  Southerner  were  sore  suhtsets. 

He  was  a  pale-faced,  under-sized  young  man,  with  very  lighl 
hair  and  eyes — so  light  that  he  was  hopelessly  near-sighted— 
and  a  weak,  querulous  voice.  It  was  just  a  little  hard  to  se« 
Scarswood  slipping  out  of  the  family  before  his  very  eyei 
through  the  headstrong  whims  of  a  novel  reading,  beauty-lovingi 
chit  of  a  girl. 

He,  too,  was  poor — poor  as  Gaston  Dantree  himself— and 
at  thirty,  mammon  was  the  god  of  his  idolatry,  and  to  reigi 
one  day  at  Scarswood,  the  perpetual  longing  of  his  lile. 

*'And  Miss  Dangcrfield  is  a  young  lady  whose  !3ls7es  muiS 
obey,  I  think ;  and  Scarswood  will  go  out  of  the  (amii^.  Suck 
a  pity,  Mr.  Dangerfield  1  Now,  I  should  think  y^  might  pr*- 
fSQt  that' 

She  made  this  audacious  bome-thrust  looking  (bU  in  hu  pal«^ 
iiin  foce,  with  her  black,  rerolute  eyea 

The  blood  tlushed  redly  to  the  roots  of  his  diiE  yellow  Hair. 

**  1 1     My  dear  madame," — with  a  hard  la»igh — *'/ii*a»d  rom 
Vm  D^t  a  handsome  man." 


i 

I 


i 


MRS.    VAlASOk, 


x>r  fts  1 

and  hifl 
his  tone 

irtne?. 


B  of  Si. 

iss  i)an 
I  behold 
ed  eye- 
lid tmd 


hunxtifi 
dth  h* 

)anger' 
r  hand 

J  h'ghl 
hted— 
to  see 
Y  eyei 
loving, 

reigi 

mui: 

Suck 

t  prfu 

Hair. 

k1  bi^ 


31 


■'  Miss   Dangcrfiekl — I  am   a  woman,  and    may   say  so 
—is  not  a  luuulsonie  i;irl." 

"All  the  grcritcr  reason  v^hy  she  should  worship  bOMCf  in 
others.  Osston  Dantrc:.  without  '«  son  in  his  pocket,  a  fcf- 
cjgncr,  an  adveiUaier,  for  all  we  know  to  the  contrary,  will  OIM 
day  reign  lord  of  Scarswood.  See  them  now !  Could  an)^ 
s^ing  be  more  lover-Hke  than  the*  are,  Mt5.  Vavasor?" 

He  spoke  ';o  her  as  though  c  bad  known  her  for  yeasn 
$t»ine  rappori  made  thosp  two  friends  at  once. 

She  looked  where  he  pointed,  her  smile  and  glance  at  their 
?5nghtest 

The  waltz  had  ended  ;  leaning  on  her  handsome  partner's 
arm,  the  last  flutter  uf  Miss  Dangerfield's  pink  dress  vanished 
in  the  green  distance  of  the  conservatory. 

"  I  see  ;  and  in  spite  of  appearances,  Mr.  Dangerfield,  I 
wouldn't  mind  betting — my  diamonds,  say,  against  that  botan- 
ical  specimen  in  your  buttonhole — that  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree, 
Grecian  profile,  tenor  voice,  and  all,  will  NEVESf.  reign  lord  off 
Sc»»1{i»"><kJ  ;  and  for  you — why  you  know  the  old  fhyme  : 

"  *  He  cither  dreads  his  fete  too  much. 
Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  fearn  to  put  it  to  the  touch, 
To  mn  or  low  it  aU.'  " 

biie  walked  away,  with  her  last  words,  iier  ever-mocking 
(au^  comii^  back  to  him  where  he  stood.  What  did  the 
wowan  mean?  How  oddly  she  looked  and  spoke.  How 
could  she  prevent  Gaston  Dantree  marrying  Katherine  ?  But 
the  last  advice  was  good — why  despair  before  speakins  ? 

"  To  win  or  lose  it  all ! "  repeated  Peter  Dangertielo,  strok- 
ing his  feeble,  colorless  miiatache  "  By  George  I  I  will  try. 
She  can  but  say  no." 

Inhere  was  a  call  for  I  1,  Dantree  oa  the  instant — Mr.  Dan- 
Iree  rris  wanted  to  sing. 

Mr.  Dangerfield  stood  where  he  was.  and  saw  the  dark- eyed 
tenor  emerge  leisurely  from  the  conservatory,  and — alone. 
He  sat  down  at  the  piano ;  his  slender,  shapely  hands  flew 
fijver  the  keys  in  a  brilliant  prelude.  Everybody  was  listening 
—now  was  his  time.  Katherine  was  in  the  conservatory  yet 
He  made  his  way  slowly  down  the  long  vista  of  rooms  to 
where,  at  the  extreme  end,  the  green  brightness  of  tropic  pUiiti 
(gleamed  in  the  lamplight 

She  still  stood  where  her  late  companion  had  left  her>  in  tb« 
oC  a  windoir,  her  robe  of  pink  tissue  fining 


i 


1  ! 


^  MRU,    VAVACiOR. 

jeweli  glancing  softly.  Tall  tropic  plants  upread  ihei/  £iui-iik« 
leaves  about  her  ;  the  air  was  rich  and  faii.t  with  exotic  od^Sfft ; 
jind  over  all  t«ie  soft,  abundant  liglit  jjoured  down. 

Gaston  Dantree's  song  floated  in — an  Irish  song,  half  gay 
half  sad,  wholly  sweet — and  a  brooding  tenderness  lay  on  the 
a^irl's  face — a  great  happiness,  new  and  sweet — and  niad« 
rt  almost  beautiful.  The  rain  .lashed  the  windows,  the  wind 
■i  the  October  night  blow  in  long,  lamentable  blasts  through 
f-he  rocking  trees :  but  the  storm  and  darkness  without  only 
{'^iade  the  contrast  within  the  n»ore  briltiant 

"Katherinel" 

She  neither  saw  nor  heard  him  until  he  was  close  at  her 
side.    She  lifted  up  her  dreamy  eyes,  her  trance  »f  bliss  over. 

"Oh,  yoUy  Peter  I  VVTiat  an  odious  habit  you  have  of  steal* 
ing  in  upon  one  like  a  cat.     1  never  heard  you," 

"You  never  heard  me,  Miss  Dangerfield?  You  need  hardly 
tell  me  that.  You  were  listening  far  too  intently  to  Mr.  Gas- 
ton Dantree  to  hear  anything  else." 

"Was  I  ?"  retorted  Katherine.  They  i  irely  met,  those  two 
except  to  quarrel  "Well,  all  \  can  say  is  that  Mr.  Gastus! 
Dft&tace  if  very  wed  worth  listening  to,  which  is  uon;  tSiiSs  k 
can  a*iy  im  yoa,  cousin  Peter." 

"You  iB€fia  Fm  not  a  singing  man,  I  suppose,  Kathie? 
Well,  I  admit  my  brains  do  not  lie  in  my  throat  and  lungs." 

"  Nor  anywhere  else,  Mr.  Dangerfield." 

"  And  when  is  it  to  be,  Katie  ?  "  Mr.  Dangerfield  demanded, 
folding  his  arms  \  "  when  are  we  all  to  offer  our  congratulations  ? 
Such  a  flirtation  as  yours,  my  dear  cousin,  with  this  Apollo 
P^lvidere  from  the  Southern  States,  can  have  but  one  end- 

"  And  such  a  flutation  as  yours  with  this  pretty  Mrs.  Vavasor, 
from  nobody  knows  where,  can  have  but  one  ending,  too,  t 
^.uppose,"  responded  Katherine,  coming  up  to  time  bravely, 
"  She  is  some  five  or  six  years  your  senior,  I  should  think  ;  bat, 
nrhere  true  love  exists,  what  does  a  Httle  disparity  of  years  sigv* 
aify  ?    A  case  of  love  at  sight ;  was  it  not,  cousin  ?  " 

"You  might  have  spared  me  that  taunt,  Katherine;  yon 
know  very  well  who  it  is  /am  so  unfortunate  as  to  love." 

"Upon  my  word,  I  don't.  My  little  cousin  Peter,  his  loves 
"Mid  hates,  are  subjects  that  trouble  me  very  sli^tly.  There  I 
Wr.  Dantiec's  song  is  done,  and  diey  are  playing  the  Lanccsik 
^ss^^fMt  we  'eave  off  quarreling  and  go  and  have  a  couatnli 


4 


1: 


tats    VAVASOK. 


ss 


M 


ovei 
ere  I 

ttnll 


**  ^M.  yet,  Kathie.  I  can  endure  this  saspenf  e  no  longer. 
t^o,  yovL  shall  not  go  \  I  will  be  heard  I  To  watch  jron  as  1 
have  watched  you  to-night  with  that  man  would  simply  drive 
rne  mad  I " 

"  Would  it  ?  Then  why  on  earth  do  you  do  it  ?  I  dotf  t 
waj»t  to  be  watched,  and  I  don't  suppose  Mr.  Dantrec  does, 
either.  You  mean  Mr.  Dan  tree,  don't  you  ?  And,  Petci 
ion't  put  on  that  tragic  face ;  it  isn't  your  style,  dear.  You're 
!^oo  fiur  complexioned.  And  what  business  is  it  of  yours,  and 
flrtiy  should  it  drive  you  mad  ?  " 

"  Little  need  to  ask,  Katherine.  You  know  only  too  well — 
because  I  love  you.  Kathie,  don't  look  like  that  1  I  lov« 
you,  and  you  know  it  well.  I  haven't  had  thoughts  or  eyes  foi 
any  living  creature  but  you  since  you  first  came  here.  Ah, 
Kathie  I  Listen  to  me.  Don't  laugh,  as  I  see  you  are  going 
to  do.  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart — better  than  ever  that  fel 
low  can  do — and  I  ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  Katherine,  don't 
laugh  at  me,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  " 

But  the  warning  came  too  late. 

Katherine  broke  out  into  a  ringing  peal  of  laughter,  that  the 
music  happily  drowned. 

Peter  Dangerfield,  looking  desperately  in  earnest,  very,  very, 
yellow,  and,  with  folded  arms,  stood  glaring  at  her  in  an  un- 
commonly savage  way  for  so  tender  a  declaration. 

^^\beg  your  pardon,  Peter,  but  I  can't  help  it.  The  idea  of 
marrying  you — only  five  feet:  five  inches,  and  an  attorney,  and 
my  &rst  cousin  I  First  cousins  should  never  marry,  you  know. 
What  would  papa  say,  you  silly  little  boy,  if  he  could  hear 
tais?" 

"  My  uncle  knows,"  the  young  man  answered,  with  sullec 
anger ;  "  I  spoke  to  him  a  month  ago." 

Miss  Dangerfield  opened  her  big,  gray  eyes. 

"  Oh,  you  did  ?  That's  what  he  meant,  then,  that  morning 
after  the  concert.  I  remember ;  he  tried  to  plead  your  cause 
And  you  spoke  to  him  first ;  and  you're  a  lawyer,  and  knew  no 
better  than  thai  I  No,  Peter ;  it  is  not  possible.  You're  a 
suce  little  fellow,  and  I  think  a  great  deal  of  you  ;  and  I'd  da 
(dmost  anything  you  wanted  me,  except- -marry  you.  ITiafi 
a  I'ttle  too  much,  even  for  such  good  nature  as  mine." 

"Then  I'm  to  consider  mys?  If  rejected?" 

"  Wow,  Peter,  don't  put  on  that  ill-tempered  face  ;  it  quite 
^)oiis  your  good  looks,  and  yoii  know  you  liave  none  to  spoil 
-~4i5«re  i  mean.     W«»ll.  yes,  then  ;  J  am  afraid  you  must  co«v 


S4 


MRS,   VAVASOn. 


ikier  jowmtM  rejected.  I  really  should  like  to  oblige  jrmi  in 
Ihis  matter,  but  you  perceive  I  can't.  Come,  let  us  make  it 
ap — I'm  not  angry — and  take  me  back  to  the  drawiiig'TOom  Hm 
my  dance.     It  is  a  sin  to  lose  such  music  as  that." 

•*ln  one  moment,  Katherine.  Will  you  answer  me  this, 
please  ?    Is  it  for  Gaston  Dantree  l  am  refused  ?  " 

"  Cousin  Peter,  I  shall  lose  my  temper  if  you  keep  on.  If 
(Here  were  no  Mr.  Dantree  in  the  case  I  should  reject  jw«  ftll 
tbe  same.  You're  very  well  as  a  first  cousin;  as  a  husband — 
tACdse  me  I  I  wouldn't  marry  you  if  you  were  the  only  man 
ieft  in  the  world,  and  the  penalty  of  refusing  you  be  to  go  to 
my  grave  an  old  maid.     Is  that  answer  decisive  enough  ?  " 

"  Very  nearly  1  Thank  you  for  your  plain  speaking,  Kathie." 
He  wai  white  with  suppressed  anger.  "But  lest  we  should 
misunderstand  each  other  in  the  least,  won't  you  tell  me  whether 
or  no  Mr.  Dantree  is  to  be  the  future  lord  of  Scarswood  Park? 
Because  in  that  case,  for  the  honor  of  the  family  I  should  en- 
deavor to  discover  the  gentleman's  antecedents.  A  ciassic 
profile  and  a  fine  voice  for  singing  may  be  sufficient  virtues  'm 
the  eyes  of  a  young  lady  of  seventeen,  but  I'm  afraid  they  will 
nardly  satisfy  the  world  or  Sir  John." 

"For  the  world  I  don't  care  that /  For  Sir  John,  whatever 
makes  me  bappy  will  satisfy  him.  I  am  trying  to  keep  my 
temper,  Peter,  but  don't  provoke  me  too  far — it  isn't  safe. 
Will  you,  or  will  you  not,  take  me  out  for  the  dance  ?  I  am 
lOt  accustomed  to  ask  favors  twice." 

"  How  queenly  she  says  it — the  heiress  of  Scarswood  1 " 
Hi3  passion  was  not  to  be  restrained  now.     "  And  it  is  for  thia 
Yankee  singing  man — this  needy  adventurer — this  negro  ciii^ 
•trel  in  his  own  land,  that  I  am  cast  off?  " 

She  whirled  round  upon  him  in  a  storm  of  sudden  fury,  and 
made  a  step  toward  him.  But  rage  lent  him  courage ;  he  stood 
Ik  is  ground. 

"  You  little  wretch !  '  cried  Miss  Dangerfield,  "  how  dare 
|OU  stand  there  and  say  such  things  to  me  ?  How  dare  yoa 
trail  Gaston  Dantree  an  adventurer  ?  You,  who  would  not  pro- 
smne  to  call  your  soul  your  own  in  his  presence  I  Negro  min- 
strel, indeed  !  You  wi etched  little  attorney  1  One  should  be 
a  gentleman  to  judge  gentlemen.  That" s  why  Mr.  Dantree*! 
beyond  your  judgment  I  Don't  ever  s]/eak  to  me  again. 
You're  very  offer  is  an  insult.  To  tb'nk  tliat  I—/  would  eve? 
marry  you,  a  little  rickety  dwarf '  ' 

And  tfeen  dead  silence  fell 


1 


it  ymi  kx 
9  make  it 
[•room  lea 

me  this, 

pen.     If 

jsband— 
:>n\y  raan 
to  go  to 
;h?" 
Kathie." 
e  should 
J  whether 
)dPark? 
lould  en- 
V  classic 
irtues  in 
they  will 

rhatever 
ceep  my 
I't  safe. 
'     I  am 

1" 

1  for  this 
ro  ciii^ 

ff  and 
stood 

dare 
re  yoa 
>t  pre- 

min« 
lid  be 
itree*! 

{ain, 

ev9! 


MXS.   VA  VASOR.  || 

\  don't  uphold  th's  heroine  of  mine — her  temper  (s  abomina^ 
bK  1  allow ;  but  the  moment  the  last  words  passed  her  lipu 
h<!r  heart  smote  her.  Peter  Dangerfielci  stood  before  her  white 
as  death,  and  trembling  so  tliat  he  v/as  forced  to  grasp  a  gilded 
flower  stand  for  support 

•*  Oh,  Peter  !  I  am  sorry !  "  she  cried  out,  "  I  didn't  mean 
ift«it  I — I  didn't  1  I  didn't ! — forgive  it — forget  it — my  tempei 
fa  NMrrible — Pm  a  wretch,  but  you  know,"  suffering  a  slight 
relafte,  "  it  was  all  your  own  fault.  Shake  hands,  cousin ;  and 
oh,  c'o— -do — do  forget  my  wicked  words  !  " 

Br't  he  drew  back  from  the  outstretched  hands,  smiling  • 
|hay4y  smUe  enough. 

"  Forget  them  ?  Certainly,  Cousin  Katherine !  I'm  not  the 
sort  of  fellow  to  bear  spite.  You're  very  good  and  all  that,  b«» 
tf  if  s  the  same  to  you,  I'll  not  shake  hands.  And  I  won't  keep 
you  from  dancing  that  quadrille  any  longer.  I'll  not  be  yoiiT 
partner — I  don't  dance  as  well  as  Mr.  Dan  tree,  and  I  see  1  iij 
coming  this  way  now.  Excuse  me  for  having  troubled  you 
about  this  presumptuous  love  of  mine  ;  I  won't  do  it  again." 

Then  he  turned  away,  and  Gaston  Dantree,  looking  like  a 
picture  in  a  frame,  stood  in  the  rose- wreathed  entrance  arch. 

"  I  am  sorry,  and  I  have  apologized,"  Katherine  said  coldly. 
"  I  can  do  no  more." 

"No  more  is  needed.  Pray  don't  keep  Mr.  Dantree  wait- 
tag.     And  I  would  rather  he  did  not  come  in  here  just  now." 

"  Come,  Kathie,"  Mr.  Dantree  called  softly. 

It  had  come  to  that  then  ;  it  was  "  Kathie  "  and  "  Gaston." 
He  saw  him  draw  her  hand  under  his  ann  as  one  having  the 
right,  whisper  something  in  her  ear  that  lit  her  face  with  sun- 
shine, and  lead  her  away. 

Peter  Dangerfield  stood  alone.  He  watched  them  quite  out 
of  sight — his  teeth  set,  his  face  perfectly  colorless,  and  a  looli 
in  his  small  eyes  bad  to  see. 

"  I  have  read  of  men  who  sold  their  souls  to  the  devil  foi  a 
price,"  he  said,  between  his  set  teeth.  "  I  suppose  the  da)Ti 
K>r  such  bargains  are  over,  and  souls  are  plentiful  enough  in 
the  kingdom  of  his  dark  majesty,  without  paying  a  farthing. 
But  if  those  days  could  come  again,  aiid  Satan  stood  beside  me, 
I  would  sell  my  soul  now  for  revenge  on  you  !  " 

"  Are  yot:  sure  you  have  one  to  sell  ?  "  a  clear,  sharp  voice 
dose  behind  him  said.  "  1  never  thought  lawyers  were 
troubled  with  those  inconvenient  appendages — hearts  and  souls. 
Well,  if  yuii  have,  keep  it ;  it's  of  no  use  to  me.     Aiid  I'm  ool 


15  AMONG    THE   HOSP^S. 

S«t«ii,  either,  but  yet  I  think  for  a  fair  price   /  can  giv  i  y^fk 
ytpox  revenge." 

He  whirled  round  with  a  stifled  exclamation,  and  MW  ■!  kfat 
«lbo«  ^Mfi.  VavAsor. 


CHAPTER   III. 


AMONG   THE   ROSKS. 


f  • 


I        <  i 


[HE  stood  beside  him,  her  ceaseless  smile  at  its  bright 
est  on  her  small  face,  looking  like  some  little  female 
Mcphistopheles  come  to  tempt  a  modern  Faust     He 
put  up  his  eye-glass  to  look  at  her.     \Vhat  a  gorgeous 
little  creature  she  was  !     It  was  his  first  thought. 

In  the  dim  yellow  light  of  the  conservatory,  the  amber  silk 
glittered  with  its  pristine  lustre,  the  yellow  roses  she  wore 
made  such  an  admirable  foil  to  her  dead  black  hair. 

"  AVhat  the  deuce  brings  me  here  ?  Don't  trouble  yourself  to 
aak  the  question,  mon  ami,  your  face  asks  it  for  you.  I've 
been  eavesdropping,"  in  her  airiest  tone ;  "  not  intentionally, 
you  imderstand,"  as  the  young  man  continued  to  stare  speech- 
lessly at  her  through  his  eye-glass.  "  Entering  the  conserva- 
tory by  the  merest  chance,  I  overheard  Miss  Dangerfield's  last 
words  to  you  ;  *  a  little  more  than  kin,  and  less  than  kind,'  were 
they  not  ?     Permit  me  to  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Dangerfield." 

"  Congratulate  me  !  "  Mr.  Dangerfield  repeated,  dropping  hii 
double-barrelled  eye-glass  and  glowering  vengefuUy  at  the  fail 
creature  by  his  side.     **  In  Heaven's  name,  on  what?  " 

"  On  having  escaped  becoming  the  husband  of  a  termagant 
Believe  me,  not  even  Scarswooi  and  eight  thousand  a  yc>i 
would  counterbalance  so  atrocious  a  temper  as  that." 

"  Eight  thousand  a  year  would  counterbalance  with  me  evca 
a  worse  temper  than  that,  Mrs.  Vavasor,"  the  lawyer  answered, 
grimly.  "  I  am  only  sorry  I  am  not  to  have  the  opportunity 
of  tiyang.  Once  my  wife,  I  think  I  could  correct  the  acidity  oSf 
even  Katherine  Dangerfield's  temper  and  tongue." 

*  No  you  could  not,  Petmchio  himself  would  fail  to  taiD« 
this  ahrew.  You  see,  Mr.  Dangerfield,  I  speak  frosa  pASt 
09q]ierience.  I  know  what  ki*^d  of  b^ood  flowe  in  our  iptrito^ 
Katherinc's  vein?  ** 


JifOATC    THE  ROSES. 


s? 


"•Very  gocxf  blowi,  then,  I  am  sure — very  goodto«p«r&, 
too,  in  Ae  main — at  least  on  the  father's  side." 

"  Ah  1  On  the  father's  aide  !  "  The  sneer  with  which  t^i 
vas  said  is  indescribable.  "  May  I  ask  if  you  knew  her  ijother 
Mr.  Dangerfield  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  did — a  deucedly  fine  woman,  too,  and  as  ami 
Able  as  she  was  handsome.  Colonel  Dangerfield — Sir  JohL 
vas  colonel  then — married  a  Miss  Lascelles,  aiid  Kc  therine  wa' 
9om  in  tnis  very  house,  while  they  were  nuiking  their  ChrisI 
nas  visit.  You  may  have  known  her  father  and  mother— fo» 
certainly  seem  to  know  Sir  John  suspiciously  well — but  don't 
tell  me  Katherine  took  her  tantmms  from  either  of  them — 1 
know  better." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  listened  quietly,  adjusting  her  braceletSi  and 
burst  out  laughing  when  he  ceased. 

"I  see  you  do — you  know  all  a])out  it.  How  old  was  Kath- 
erine when  her  father  and  mother  left  England  for  India?" 

"Two  or  three  years,  or  thereabouts.  It  seems  to  me — 
being  so  well  acquainted,  and  all  tl>at,  as  you  say — ^yuu  ought 
to  know  yourself.  Was  it  in  England  or  India  you  came  to 
know  the  Governor  so  well  ?  " 

"  In  neither,  Mr.  Dangerfield." 

"  Or  does  your  acquaintance  extend  only  to  the  baronet  ? 
Gadl  he  looked  like  an  incarnate  thunder-cloud  when  present- 
ing you.  His  past  remembrances  of  you  must  be  uncommonly 
pleasant  ones,  I  should  say.  Did  you  know  the  late  Mrs. 
Colonel  Dingerfield,  Mrs.  Vavasor  ?  " 

"I  knew  the  late  Mrs.  Colonel  Dangerfield,  Mr.  D&sger^ 
&eld." 

"  And  yet  you  say  Katherine  takes  her  temper  from  he? 
mother.  My  late  aunt-in-law  must  have  greatly  rhanged,  then 
from  the  time  I  saw  her  kst." 

"  I  repeat  it,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  said.  tnpjMnj?  her  fan.  "  Kath- 
^ne  inherits  her  most  abominable  teinpei  trom  her  mother,  the 
-Mkiy  inheritance  her  mother  ever  Icfi  \\'.:x.  .Xnd  sh^e  looks  like 
aer — wonderfully  like  her — so  like,"  Mi-s.  v'avasor  repeated  ii 
i  strange,  suppressed  voice,  "  tiiui  1  could  almost  take  her  foi 
t  ghost  in  pink  gauze." 

**  Like  her  mother  1 "  cried  Peter  Dange  field.  **  I  beg  yoti: 
pardon,  Mrs.  '^''avasor  but  you  must  be  dreaming.  She  is  n- 
aoore  like  her  mother  than  1  am.  The  late  Mis.  Dangerf  cl. 
iras  a  handsorae  woman." 

**  Wv,;r:h  rtiir  spirifcd  hoirf»ss  npvsr  will  b*;.     T  afir^f  H*i»  f  on* 


3« 


AMCfTO    THE   ROSES. 


Mt.  DangerfieUi ;  and  yet  you  told  me  yon  were  in  love  witk 
her,  and  wanted  to  marry  her." 

"  I  meant  v/hat  I  ?aid."  the  young  man  responded,  lullenly 
"  1  do  want  to  marry  her." 

"  Or  her  fortune  —which  ?  " 

"I  don't  see  that  that'sany  business  of  yours,  f.frs.  VavaKK  , 
^A  I  don't  see  what  I  am  standing  hr*re  ai)u>irg  ICatherine  t* 
foufor.  You  don't  like  her,  do  yon  i*  Now  ^vnat  has  sheeTCi 
lone  to  you  ?  " 

"Nothing  whatever- -/haven't  seen  Katlx-rine  until  to-nighl 
for  fifteen  years.  She  was  two  years  old  then — a  little  demoi- 
lelle  in  pantalettes,  and  too  youiig  to  have  an  enemy." 

"  Yet  you  are  her  enemy,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  ;i  you  sit  at  hci 
table  a,nd  eat  her  bread  and  salt.  And  you  speak  of  her  mothci 
as  if  you  detested  her.  i'i  \i  for  the  moiher's  sake  you  hate  the 
daughter  ?  " 

"For  the  mother's  sake."  She  relocated  the  four  short  words 
with  a  concentrated  l.»ittemess  that  rather  rei)clled  her  contpan- 
ion.  "  And  you  hate  her  for  her  own,  Mr.  Uangerfield."  She 
laid  her  httle  hand  suddenly  and  sharply  on  his  arm,  and  sent 
the  words  in  his  ear  hi  a  sibillant  svhisin.T.  *'  We  both  hate  her  ; 
let  us  make  conunon  cause  together,  and  have  our  revenge." 

Peteir  !^angerfield  threw  off  the  gloved  hand  that  felt  uni)lea9 
antly  like  t  steel  manacle  on  hi«  wrist. 

**  Don't  be  melodramatic,  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Re- 
venge, indeed.  And  1  a  lawyer.  You  would  make  an  unco;  n- 
monly  good  first  actress,  iny  dear  madam,  but  in  private  life 
your  h'strionic  talents  are  quite  tiirown  away.  Revenge  I  bah  ! 
Why  the  vendetta  has  gone  out  of  fashion  even  in  Corsica.  We 
don't  live  in  the  days  of  the  handsome  Lucrezia,  when  a  p)er- 
fiimed  rose  or  a  pair  of  Jouvin's  best  kids  sent  one's  adversary 
to  gior}^".  There  is  no  such  word  as  revenge  in  these  latter 
(days,  my  deai*  madam.  If  one's  wife  runs  away  from  one  with 
K)nie  -..iliiei  fellow,  we  don't  follow  and  wipe  out  our  dishonor 
in  his  b!oo<j  ;  we  simp'  '  go  to  Sir  Creswell  and  get  a  divorce. 
Xl-wfi  >runaway  with  some  other  fellow's  wife,  that  other  fellow 
»se*  us  for  daniages,  and  makes  a  good  thing  of  it.  Believe 
ikie,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  revenge  is  a  word  that  will  soon  be  obsolete, 
except  on  theatrical  boards.  But  at  the  same  time  I  shoulti  like 
to  know  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"  What  is  that  you  sing  me  there  ?  "  Mrs.  Vavasor  cried,  iv 
rlic  iVench  idiom  siie  used  when  excited.     "  While  the  wcjiU? 
'HX3,  5.5:td  fiiea  love,  'iwd.  hale,  and  tjse  sv/o?ds  -sjiid  pistels,  r? 


i 


'4w 


AMONG    THE  XOSRS. 


3f 


;  in  love  iMb 
idftd,  fullenl} 


fr».  Vdivmm  ■. 

ICatherine  t^ 

t  has  she  eves 

until  to-nighl 
a  little  demoi- 
jniy." 

>'ou  sit  at  hci 
of  her  niothei 
;  you  hate  the 

ir  short  words 
\  her  contpan- 
gerfield."  She 
inn,  and  ient 
Dth  hate  her ; 
r  revenge." 
t  felt  un pleas 


avasor. 


Re- 

:e  an  unco;  a- 
private  life 

|venge  !  bah  i 

!orsica.     We 

when  a  per- 

j's  adversary 

these  latter 

lorn  one  with 
)iir  dishonor 
!t  a  divorce. 

lother  fellow 
it.     Believe 

|be  obsoh.^e, 
shouiti  like 

ior  cried  i« 

le  the  wcjiLi? 
pistols,  r? 


renge  will  «/7Y/'go  out  of  fashion.  And  you  hate  jrour  ouiiiii 
— hatr  herso  that  if  looks  \v<'r  ^  !  .;htning  she  would  have  fallen 
At  your  feet  ti^n  minutes  a^o.  '  A  little  rukety  dwarf ^^  Sh« 
lau(^hed  her  shrill,  sonicwiua  clhsh  iaugh.  "  Not  a  pleasant 
nan^e  to  be  called,  Mr.  Dangerfield." 

His  face  blackened  at  the  reni<Mnbrancc,  his  small,  pale  cyea 
••'•>(;(  forth  that  steely  fire  lifjfht  blu':?  eyes  only  can  Hash. 

"  Why  do  you  remind  n)e  of  that  ?  "  he  said  hoarsely.  '*Sl>^ 
..tid  not  mean  it  -she  said  so.'' 

**She  saidao — she  said  so  I  "  bis  companion  cried,  scornfully. 
•'  Peter  Dangerfield,  you're  not  the  man  I  take  you  for  if  yoo 

■  endure  quietly  such  an  insult  as  ihat.  And  look  at  her  now, 
with  Gaston  Dantree,  that  ])enniless  tenor-singer,  with  the  voice 
of  an  angel  and  the  face  of  a  g(Kl.  J.ook  how  she  smiles  up  at 
him.  Did  she  ever  give  you  sucli  a  glance  as  that  ?  See  how 
he  bends  over  her  and  whispers  in  her  ear.  Did  she  ever  listen 
to  you  with  that  happy  face,  those  drooping,  downcast  eyes  ? 
Why  she  loves  that  man—  that  impoverished  adventurer  ;  and 
love  and  happiness  make  her  almost  beautiful.  And  she  called 
you  a  rickety  dwarf.  Perhaps  even  now  they  are  laughing  over 
I  rather  as  a  good  joke." 

**  Woman  I     Devil  I  "  her  victim  burst  out,  goaded  to  frenzy 
•*  You  lie  !     Katherine  Dangerfield  would  stoop  to  no  such  base» 
wess  as  that  I  " 

"  Would  she  not  ?     You  have  yet  to  learn  to  what  depths  ol 
'I  baseness  women  like  her  can  stoop.     She  has  bad,  bitter  bad 

■  blijod  in  her  veins,  I  tell  you.  She  comes  of  a  daring  and  un- 
scrupulous race.  Oh,  don't  look  at  me  like  that — I  don't  mean 
the  Dangerfields.  And  you  will  bear  her  merciless  taunt,  and 
stand  quietly  by  while  she  marries  yonder  handsome  coxcomb, 
and  go  and  be  best  man  at  the  wedding,  and  take  your  hat  .  S 
foiever  after  when  you  meet  Gaston  Dantree,  Lord  of  Scr.:*^ 

•  RTuod  Park.  Hah  !  Peter  Dangerfield,  you  must  have  milk  at.d 
crater  in  your  veins  instead  of  blood,  and  I  am  only  wastirv; 
ojy  time  here  talking  to  you.  I'll  detain  you  no  longer.  1 
msh  you  ^ood-evening." 

She  had  ^oa/ied  him  to  the  right  point  at  last.  As  she  turned 
to  go  he  caught  her  arm  fiercely  and  held  her  back. 

"  Stay  ! "  he  cried  hoarsely  ;  "  you  shall  not  go  I     You  i^v 
well  to  say  I  hate  her.     And  she   shall   never  marry  Gasti>\ 
Dantree  if  I  can  prevenT  it.     Only  show  rue  the  way  how  !    O  • 
'x'W  me!"  he   exciai.    xl,  breathless    and  hoarse,    'au'       - 
.-'Hither  T  Have  fcjrxxi  in  my  '«.'eins  instead  of  milk  ar»d  ^"^^■■.  - 


I    11 


4U 


AMONG    THB.   Jf^SM6 


-though 


thu  litart  if 


A  BMUi's  paessionB  in  my  heart- 
rickety  dwnrf ! " 

Ah  1  that  blow  struck  home. 

"  Look  at  them  once  again,  Mr.  Dan^e  icld,  lest  you  br»r<f 
resolutions  should  cool — look  at  Kathenr  'j  D'^ngeH^cld  and  he 
lover  funtf." 

The  baroneffl  daughter  was  walt/.ing  again  — she  had  a  pa« 
•ionate  love  of  dancing,  and  Hoated  m\a  the  native  grace  of  i 
&iyadere. 

She  was  waltzing  with  Dantree,  her  long  rose-wreathed  browr 
hair  floating  over  his  shoulder,  her  happy  face  uplifted  as  sh< 
whirled  down  the  long  vi^ta  in  his  arms  to  the  intoxicating 
nusic  of  the  "  Cruard's  VVal'  i." 

"  You  see  !  "  Mrs.  Vavasor  said  significantly  ;  "  he  who  runs 
-nay  read,  and  he  who  stands  still  may  understand.  His  nielan- 
viboly  tenor  voice,  his  lover  like  sigiis,  his  dark,  pathetic  e^;:.* 
have  done  their  work — Katherine  Dangerfield  is  in  love  with 
Oaston  Dantree  !  It  is  a  very  old  story  :  a  lady  of  high  degree 
has  'stooped  to  contpier.'  Sir  John  won't  take  it,  1  dare  say  ; 
but  could  Sir  Jolm  refuse  iiis  idolized  darling  anything  ?  If  she 
cried  for  the  moon  she  would  have  it.  And  she  is  so  impetuous, 
dear  child  1  She  will  be  Mrs.  Gaston  Dantree  in  the  time  it 
would  take  another  young  lady  to  decide  the  color  of  the  brides- 
maid's dresses." 

"  She  shall  never  be  Mrs.  Gaston  Dantree  if  1  can  prevent 
it ! "  Peter  Dangerfield  cried,  vehemently,  his  pale  blue  eyei 
filled  with  lurid  rage. 

"Yes,  but  unhai)pily  there  is  tne  rub — if  you  can  prevent  it 
Yon  don't  snp|)ose  now,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  said,  thoughtfully,  "  thii 
Mr.  Dantree  is  in  love  with  her  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it.  He  looks  as  though  he  were,  m 
least — and  be  hanged  to  him  ?  " 

"That  tells  nothing.  She  is  the  heiiess  of  Scarswood,  ao<- 
Mr.  Dantree — like  vourself,  I  haven't  a  doubt-  -is  in  love  witV 
that.  I  wonder  if  either  of  you  would  want  to  marry  her  if  sh* 
iuuln't  a  farthing — if  her  brown  hair  and  hei  fine  figure  were  hm 
Aoly  fortune  ?  " 

"  I  can  answei  for  myself-  I  would  see  her  at  tW;  devtof 
kntr 

**  And  unless  I  greatly  mistake  him,  Mr.  Dantree  would  alio. 
How  she  looks  up  at  him  !  how  she  smiles  ! — her  infatuation  ii 
vmtrnt  to  the  whole  room.  And  after  her, ;  .^  arc  the  Uciriife' 
l,--^,  Mr.  Dangerfteld." 


iHroyCf    THF    ROSRS 


41 


Ml  llMrt  flf  * 


sst  you  brtriT 
:r^ld  and  b« 

she  had  a  pu 
tive  grace  of  t 

reathed  browi 
jplifted  as  she 
e  intoxicating 

*'  he  who  runs 

I.     His  nielan 

,  pathetic  e^.:f 

s  in  love  with 

of  high  degree 

it,  I  dare  say ; 

thing  ?     If  she 

so  impetuous, 

in  the  time  it 

■  of  the  brides- 

1  can  prevent 
ale  blue  eyei 

:an  prevent  it 
rhtfully,  "  thU 

rh  he  were,  ai 

[uirswood,  aD<' 
s  in  love  witV 
any  her  if  8h« 
gure  were  hei 

at  isxc  dewof 

■^  would  alto. 
infatuation  ii 
re  the  heii-Afr 


**  I  don't  see  what  that's  got  to  do  with  it,"  the  young  niar 
Miorted,  sulkily.  "  1  un  likely  to  remain  heir-ut  Law  to  tht 
end  of  my  days,  for  what  I  sec.  The  governor  will  go  ofl  the 
hooks,  and  she  will  marry,  and  there  »vill  be  a  soti-  half  a  dozer 
of  'em,  most  likely — and  my  cake  is  dough.  I  wish  you  wouldr/l 
talk  about  it  at  all ;  it's  of  no  use,  a  man  howling  his  life  out  fw 
what  he  never  can  get" 

"Certainly  not — for  what  he  cant  get ;  but  I  don't  perceivt 
die  *  can't  get '  in  this  case.  Three  people  stood  betwe^rn  Colo 
nel  Dangerteld  and  the  title  six  months  ago,  and  they — as  you 
express  it  in  the  elegantly  allegoricai  language  of  the  day — 
•went  off  the  hooks;'  and  lo  !  our  Indian  officer,  all  in  a 
moment,  steps  into  three  pairs  of  dead  men's  shoes,  a  title,  and 
a  fortune.  Scarswood  may  change  hands  unexpectedly  before 
the  year  ends  again." 

"Mrs.  Vavasor — if  that  be  your  name — /don't  understand 
you.  Whaf  8  the  use  of  badgering  a  man  in  this  way  ?  If 
you've  got  anything  to  say,  say  it.  1  never  was  any  hand  at 
jjuesBing  riddles.     What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed  gayly. 

"  Forcible,  but  nol  polite  !  Did  you  ever  have  your  fortune 
told,  Mr.  Dangerfield  ?  I  have  some  gyi)sy  blood  in  my  veins. 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  I'll  tell  it,  without  the  proverbial  piece 
of  silver." 

He  held  it  out  mechanically.  Under  all  this  riddle-like  talk, 
he  knew  some  strong  meaning,  very  much  to  the  point,  lay. 
What  could  she  mean  ?  Who  could  she  be  ?  She  took  his  thin, 
pale,  cold  hand,  and  peered  into  the  palm,  with  the  prettiest 
fortune-telling  air  imaginable. 

"A  strangely  chequered  palm,  my  gentleman  ;  all  its  strange 
iiiture  to  come.  I  see  a  past,  quiet  and  uneventful.  I  see  s 
character,  thoroughly  selfish,  avaricious,  and  unprincipled.  N*» 
fcn't  take  your  hand  away  ;  it  will  do  you  good  to  hear  ti"7e 
Iruth  once  in  a  way,  Mr.  Dangerfield.  You  can  hate  with  tiger- 
ish intensity ;  you  would  commit  any  crime  under  Heaven  fox 
aw>ney,  so  that  you  were  never  likely  to  be  found  out.  You 
tare  for  nobody  but  yourself,  and  you  never  will.  A  woman 
Hands  in  your  path  to  fortune — a  woman  you  hale.  That  ob 
itacle  will  be  removed.  I  see  here  a  mined  home  ;  and  ov«3 
win  and  death  you  step  into  fortune.  Don'i  a*-k  me  how. 
The  lines  don't  tell  that,  just  yet ;  they  may  very  soon.  You 
«c  to  be  a  baronet,  and  the  time  is  very  near.  H'lw  do  yo* 
Ikz  foor  fortune.  Sir  Peter  Dangerneld,  that  is  to  be  ?  " 


r? 


4MnNt'     rffP    h'iKSf^ 


\     s 


SIfcn  drotn)«d  his  hand  ami  looked  him  tull  in  the  faxe,  itzcAz^. 

iij^  6re  jn  hci  [AmX  eyes. 

"Husii-hh!  fi)t  n'cavon's  sake  1  "  he  »vhi»^ercd,  in  terrot. 
*'  If  you  should  be  overheard  !  " 

"  Hut  how  do  you  like  it  ?" 

"There  c*n  be  no  (luestion  of  that.  Only  I  don't  nnda 
•laud.  You  are  niockir<{  lU',.  What  you  predict  can  ncvei 
^j«ppen." 

"Why  not?*' 

"  Why  not !  why  not  !  "  he  erxlaimed,  impatiently.  "  Yuu 
don't  need  to  a^k  that  question.  K.itherine  I )angertield  stands 
between  me  ;  a  life  as  good — better  than  my  own." 

The  little  tenjptress  in  amber  silk  laid  her  canary-colore*! 
glove  on  his  wrist  and  drew  him  close  to  her. 

"What  I  predict  will  happen,  as  surely  as  we  stand  herr 
Don't  ask  me  how  ;  I  can't  tell  you  to  ni[;ht.  There's  a  secret 
in  Sir  John  Dangertield's  life— a  secret  1  have  been  i)aid  wel. 
to  keep,  which  I  have  kept  for  fifteen  years,  which  no  inont> 
will  make  me  keep  nincii  longer.  1  have  a  debt  of  long  stand 
ing  to  pay  otf — a  debt  of  vengeance,  contracted  before  Kather 
♦ne  Dangerfield  was  born,  which  Katherine  Dangerfield  yet 
Rttust  pay.  What  will  you  give  me  if  within  the  nex*  three 
ndonths  1  make  you  heir  of  Scartiwood  ?  " 

"You?" 

"  I ! " 

"  It  is  impossible  !  " 

"  It  is  not ! "  She  stamped  her  foot.  "  Quick  I  Tdl  me  ! 
What  will  you  give  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  I  don't  mean  that  you  shall  yet.  Will  you  give  me  ten 
ebousand  pounds  the  day  that  makes  you — through  me,  n»ind — 
lord  of  Scarswood  ?  Quick  I  Here  come  our  lovers.  Yes  <" 
ao?" 

"yw." 

"It  is  well.     I  shall  have  your  bond  instead  of  your  pronn.. 
ioon.     Not  a  whisper  of  this  to  a  living  mortal,  or  all  is  at  ar 
«nd.     We  are  sworn  allies,  then,  from  this  night  forth.     Sh.ilvC 
hands  upon  it." 

They  clasped  hands. 

H»  shivered  a  htile,  unprinciplea  though  he  was,  as  h-*  fell 
'ihe  ccrld,  steely  clasp  of  her  gloved  fingers.  She  glanced  'jp 
3  flash  of  triumph  lighting  her  eyes,  to  where  Katherine  LN*ri 
fe.rfteld,  8till  leaning  on  hr»-  handsome  lover's  arm,  a^poached 


« 


lOVR    UA/DKX    rtfn    LA^tPS 


A> 


;rt:d,  in  terroi 


I  don't  andet 
diet  can  neve. 


icntly.     "  Yod 
igertield  stand;, 
n." 
Ciinaiy-colorcti 

ve  stand  herr 
'here's  a  secret 
been  paid  wei. 
lich  no  n»onc> 
of  long  stand 
before  Kather 
iangerfield  yet 
lie  nex*  three 


k  I     TcU  me  I 


give  nie  ten 
h  me,  nund- 
vers.     Yes  <>> 


your  pronn.. 

all  is  at  a< 
brth.     Shalce 


IS,  as  \\^.  Ui\\ 
glanced  up 
henne  TNin 
a^poached 


*'Now,  then,  my  baronet's  daugutci  -  iii>  naughty  littu 
heirciw; -  lr.«ok  to  yourself!  1  \n\  a  voinan  who  nevtr  yr< 
■pared  fnVnd  or  foe  who  stood  ir  my  i><uh.      Vn  vichs  /" 

She  vanished  as  she  spoke;  and  IVter  0;mg«'rti<ld,  feelinj 
like  a  man  in  a  dream,  his  head  in  it  whirl,  glided  alter  hei,  a* 
hit  couAO  and  her  cavalier  stepped  undci  the  arch  uf  roM  %ikA 
oyrtle. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


LOVF    UNDKk    THS    l-AMPS. 


OW  charmingly  cool  it  is  here,"  Miss  Dangerfield't 
fresh  young  voice  was  saying,  as  they  came  in  ;  "how 
bewitching  is  this  |)ale  nujonshmy  sort  of  lamplight 
among  the  orange  trees  uiul  myrlleb ,  and  oh  i  Mr. 
Dantree,  how  delicious  that  last  waltz  was.  You  have  my  step 
as  nobody  else  has  it,  and  you  waltz  so  light  —so  light  I  It 
has  been  a  heavenly  evening  altogether  !  " 

She  threw  herself  into  a  rustic  chair  as  she  b|)oke,  where 
trailing  vines  and  crimson  bloom  formed  a  brilliant  arcl:  ovei 
her  head,  and  looked  u[)  at  him  with  eyes  that  shone  like  stars 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  only  because  balls  and  [)arties  are  such 
rare  things  to  me  that  I  have  enjoyed  this  so  greatly,  or  be- 
cause I  am  just  seventeen,  and  everything  is  delightful  at 
•erenteen  ;  or  because — because — Mr.  Dantree,  1  wonder  if 
y§u  have  enjoyed  yourself?" 

"  1  have  been  in  paradise,  Miss  Dangerfield." 

"  And  how  gloomily  he  says  it — and  how  pale  and  wrctche<5 
he  looks,"  laughed  Katherine.  "  Your  paradise  can't  be  any 
jfreat  things,  judging  by  your  face  at  this  moment !  " 

"Miss  Dangerfield,  it  is  because  my  i)aradise  ha^  been  so 
perilously  sweet  that  1  look  gloomy.  The  world  outside,  bleak 
and  barren,  must  have  looked  trebly  bleak  to  Kve  when  she 
left  Eden." 

**Eve  shouldn't  have  left  it  then — she  should  have  had 
•ense  and  left  the  tempting  apple  alone." 

"Ah,  but  it  was  so  tempting,  and  it  hung  so  dehciouslf 
within  reach  1  And  Eve  forgot,  as  I  have  done,  everything 
Ihe  iaXiX  penalty — all  but  the  heavenly  sweetness  of  the  passiiLg 

OMMDCBl.*' 


44 


LOVi:    CNDER    THB   LAMPS. 


1 


•Wen,**  Miss  Dangerfield  said,  flnttering  her  fan,  and  looii 
lag  upwaid,  '*  1  may  be  stupid,  Mr.  Dantree,  but  1  don't  qtillfl 
CAtch  your  metaphor.     Eve  ate  that  apple  several  thousaiui 
fean  ago,  and  was  very  properly  punished,  but  what  has  thai 
^  do  with  you  t " 

"  Kecaufe  I,  like  Eve,  have  eaten  my  apple  to-night,  and  tC' 
4ROITOW;  the  gates  of  my  earthly  paradise  close  upon  mc  few 
aver." 

'  Divested  of  its  adjuncts — there  wasn't  much,  perhap^  il 
dus  speech ;  but  given  a  young  lady  of  seventeen,  of  a  poetif 
Hid  sentimental  turn  of  mind — soft,  sweet  music  swelling  in 
die  distance — a  dim  light — the  fragrance  of  tropic  flowers  and 
warmth,  ami  a  remarkably  good-looking  young  man — it  implies 
a  great  deal.  He  certainly  looked  dangerously  handsome  at 
this  moment,  with  his  pale  Byronic  face,  his  fathooiless  dark 
eyes,  his  whole  air  of  impassioned  melancholy — a  beauty  as 
fatal  as  the  serpent  to  Eve  in  his  own  allegory. 

No  doubt  that  serpent  came  to  our  frail  first  mother  in  very 
beautiful  guise,  else  she  had  never  listened  to  his  seductive 
words. 

The  soft  white  lace,  the  cluster  of  blush-roses  on  Katherine's 
breast,  rose  and  fell.  She  was  only  seventeen,  and  over  head 
and  ears  in  love,  poor  child. 

She  laughed  at  his  romantic  words,  but  there  was  a  little 
tremor  in  her  clear  tones  as  she  spoke  : 

"  Such  a  sentimental  speech,  Mr.  Dan  tree.  Sussex  is  a  very 
nice  coimty,  and  Scars  wood  a  very  agreeable  place,  no  doubt ; 
but  neither  quite  constitute  my  idea  of  paradise.  And  what  do 
you  mean  by  saying  yon  leave  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  mean  I  dare  stay  no  longe  .  I  should  never  have  conve 
lure  at  all — I  wish  to  Heaven  1  never  had ! " 

It  was  drawing  near  !  Her  heart  was  throbbing  with  rapt- 
ure ;  she  loved  him,  and  she  knew  what  was  coming,  but  still 
ibe  parried  her  own  delight. 

"  Please  don't  be  profane,  Mr.  Dantree.  You  wish  you  had 
■ever  come  ?  Now  I  call  that  anything  but  complimentary  to 
the  neighborhood  and  to  me.  Be  kind  enough  to  explain  your- 
self, sir.     Why  do  you  wish  you  had  never  come  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  been  mad—  because  I  am  mad.  ()h, 
Hatherine  I  can't  you  see  ?  Why  will  you  make  me  speak 
prhat  1  should  die  rather  than  utter  ?  Why  will  you  make  ma 
aoofeM  my  madness — confess  that  I  lore  you  f  " 

He  nittde  aa  Bnpassioned  gesture^,  and  turned  a  wxy.    Mm:- 


rovs  ir.K'irES   rNf  LAMPi; 


i\ 


%  Mid  look 
don't  quItQ 
al  thousand 
hat  has  thai 

Ight,  and  «> 
[xm  me  fo? 

perhap^  i£, 
of  a  poetk 
swelling  in 
flowers  and 
— it  implies 
andsonie  at 
>Qiless  dark 
I    beauty  as 

ther  in  very 
is  seductive 

Katherine's 
I  over  head 

ras  a  littic 

;x  is  a  very 
no  doubt ; 
id  what  do 

lave  come 

with  rapt- 
\%y  but  stil! 

|h  you  had 
lentary  to 
»lain  your- 

lad.     ()h, 
Ime  speak 

Imake  mt 

ly.     MiiC> 


jc»4y  could  not  have  done  it  better  His  voic*,  his  gUince, 
lufl  passionate  wcmls,  were  the  perfection  o^  tiisKclass  drama. 
And  then  there  was  dead  silence. 

"  You  do  not  speak  ! "  he  cried.  '*  I  have  shocked  you ;  you 
hate,  you  despise  me  as  I  deserve!"  He  was  leally  gettinf 
ilanned  in  spite  of  his  conviction  that  she  was  hopelessly  iE 
♦aore  with  him.  "  Well,  I  deserve  it  all !  1  stand  before  yo« 
Mimiless,  with  neither  noble  name  nor  fortune  to  offer  you,  and 
1  dare  to  tell  you  of  my  hopeless  passion.  Katherine,  forgivr 
jiel" 

The  rich  green  carpet  was  soft,  there  was  no  one  to  see,  and 
lie  8ank  gracefully  on  one  knee  before  her,  and  bowed  his  head 
over  her  hand. 

"  Forgive  me  if  you  can,  and  tell  me  to  go  ! " 

Then  his  soft  tenor  tones  died  away  pianissimo  in  stifled 
emotion,  and  he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  mustached  lips.  It 
trembled — with  an  ecstacy  too  great  for  words.  He  loved  her 
like  this — her  matchless  darling — and  he  told  her  to  bid  hin^ 
go  I  Her  fingers  closed  over  his,  tighter  and  tighter — she  bent 
down  until  he  could  almost  hear  the  loud  throbbing  of  her  heart 

"  Go  I "  she  whispered,  faintly.  "  Gaston,  1  should  die  iJ 
you  left  me  ! " 

He  clasped  both  her  hands,  with  a  wild,  theatrical  start,  and 
gazed  at  her  in  incredulous  amaze. 

"  Katherine  I  do  you  know  what  you  say  ?  Have  I  heard 
you  aright?  For  pity's  sake,  do  not  mock  me  in  my  despera- 
tion— do  not  lift  me  for  a  moment  to  Heaven  only  to  cast  me 
out  again  !  It  cannot  be — it  is  maddest  presumption  of  me  to 
hope  that  you  love  me  ! " 

Her  hands  closed  only  the  more  closely  over  his  :  her  head 
drooped,  her  soft,  abundant  brown  hair  hiding  its  trernor  of 
bliss. 

"  I  never  hoped  for  this,"  he  said  ;  "  I  never  thought  of  tiiis  . 
I  knew  it  was  n\y  destiny — my  madness — to  adore  you  ;  bul 
orver — no,  never  in  my  wildest  drean-, — did  I  dare  hope  you 
coold  stoop  to  me.  My  darling — say  it  just  once,  that  I  may 
know  I  am  awake  I "  He  was  very  wide-awake,  indeed,  al 
that  moment.  "  Say  just  once,  my  own  heart's  darling,  *  Gap 
tcm,  I  love  you  I ' " 

She  said  it,  her  face  hidden  in  his  superfine  coat-facings,  h' 
roice  trembling,  every  vein  m  her  body  thrilling  with  raptun 

And  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree  smiled — a  half-aiuused,  a  hah  . 
iJtant  wniW  of  triuuiph. 


i;«i 
••**^ 


•»«'A   fTs/Df^p  Tffh  rAMm. 


: 


*'i'v€  pl^Ayed  for  high  stakei?  before,"  he  thoufl^t*,  "bttl 
tievei  fti>  high  a:>  this,  or  vsith  liaif  jo  cair.y  a  v'ict(;iy.  ArjCi — 
oh,  pov>'ers  of  verigiNajice  !  -^If  ^faric^  should  cvc^t  ftrul  this  out  1 
ITaeye'a  only  one  drawback  now — the  old  man.  I'he  girl  may 
b«  a  fool,  but  he's  not.  Tliere'll  be  no  end  of  a  row  when  thia 
comes  out" 

She  Lifted  her  head  from  iiis  shoulder  hpt'  looked  up  at  ^11^ 
.*!»/  and  sweet. 

*And  you  really  care  for  me  like  this,  Gaston,  and  yoo 
{^ftliiy  thought  I  would  let  you  go — you  really  thought  the  dif- 
ferertce  in  wealth  and  rank  between  us  would  be  any  difference 
tu  me  ?     How  little  you  know  me  !  " 

"  I  knew  you  for  the  best,  the  dearest,  tiie  loveliest  of  al' 
iromen.  But  your  father,  Katherine — he  will  never  consent  to 
a  poor  artist  like  me  coming  and  wooing  his  darling." 

"You  don't  know  him,  Gaston  ;  papa  would  do  anything  on 
earth  to  please  ine — anything.  When  he  discovers  how  wc 
love  each  other,  he  will  never  stand  between  us.  He  lives  but 
to  make  nic  happy." 

"  You  are  sure  of  this,  Katherine  ?  " 

"  Certain,  Gaston  ;  your  poverty  will  be  no  obstacle  to 
him." 

"  Then  he's  a  greater  fool  than  1  take  hhn  for,"  thought  Mr. 
Dantree.  "  If  I  were  in  his  place,  1  would  kick  Gaston  Dan- 
tree  out  of  thie  room.  Good  Heavens  !  if  I  should  marry  this 
girl  and  it  should  get  10  Marie's  ears  !  If  I  shall  marry  her — 
come  what  may.  Flight  thousand  a  year  at  stake,  and  Marie 
the  only  obstacle  in  the  way,  and  hundreds  of  leagues  of  sea 
and  land  between  me  and  that  obstacle  I  There  is  no  turning 
back  now  ;  come  what  may,  I  shall  marry  the  heiress  of  Scars 
wood."  He  turned  to  her  with  almost  real  passion  in  his  voic* 
now. 

"  Katherine,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands  in  his  and  look- 
kig  in  her  eyes,  "  whatever  betides,  for  good  or  for  ill,  you  will 
iM>t  draw  l>ack — for  good  or  for  evil  you  are  mine  1 " 

She  met  his  eyes  full  for  the  first  time.  She  was  pale,  but 
there  was  no  tremor  in  her  voice  as  she  slowly  repeated  hi* 
wordf.     Clearly  and  firmly  they  came  : 

"  Yours,  Gaston — yours  only.  For  good  or  for  evil,  to  the 
MkJ  of  my  life — yours  !  " 

For  good  or  for  evil ! — ominous  words. 

For  good  or  for  evil  the  vow  was  plighted ;  and  she  ttood 
f®4ef  the  liiupg  pledged  to  become  Gaston  Dantree' 8  wife. 


loughtv  "4»1 

.ory.     A  ad — 

firul  this  out  1 

i  he  girl  may 

aw  wiieu  thia 

:d  up  at  Us^ 

ton,  and  you 
Dught  the  dif- 
Lny  difFerenco 

veliest  of  all 
er  consent  to 

)  anything  on 

vers  how  we 

He  lives  but 


obstacle  to 

thought  Mr. 
aston  Dan- 
marry  this 
marry  her — 
and  Marie 
agues  of  sea 
no  turning 
ss  of  Scars 
in  his  voice 

is  and  look- 
ill,  you  will 

as  pale,  but 
epeated  hi* 

evil,  to  the 


she  ftood 

i'8  wife. 


4 


4 


4 


i 


.•^ayifff/?    n^FAk-F^ST. 


Cil.«^i*T£R  V. 


BEFOKU:     BREAKFAST. 


m 


N  the  bleak,  raw  ^-Jawn  of  the  wt:t  October  morning; 
Sir  Jo  in  Danger iieiir^'s  guests  went  hotae.  Wuik  \Xu 
lamps  still  gleamed  i;uong  the  flowers  on  Uie  landiii^ 
and  staii"ways,  Mrs  Vavasor,  trailing  the  yellow  glinrv 
nicr  of  her  silk  robe  behind  he*-,  went  up  to  her  own  room- 
went  up  with  the  fag-end  of  a  tune  between  her  lips,  a  feverisb 
Uistre  in  her  eyes,  a  feverish  tlusn,  not  all  rouge,  on  her  cheeks 
looking,  as  a  hopeless  adore,  at  tlie  foot  of  the  stairs  quoted  : 

"  In  her  lov J>  stken  munuur 
Like  an  augel  dad  Hd)  wingn.** 

The  adorer  had  taken  a  great  deal  of  champagne  at  supper 
And  hiccoughs  interrupted  the  poetic  tiow  of  the  quotation. 

So  %lso  had  Mrs.  Vavasor  herself.  Perhaps  a  little  of  the 
Drilliancy  of  eyes  and  color  were  due  to  the  Cliquot.  b'^t  tucn  a 
good  deal  more  was  owing  to  triuniph.  F.v  eryihing  was  going 
on  so  well.  The  little  debt  she  had  waited  so  long  to  pay  ofl 
was. in  a  fair  way  to  receive  a  full  receipt. 

Peter  Dangerfield  was  pliant  as  wax  in  her  hands,  Gaston 
Dantree  was  the  man  of  all  men  whom  she  v.'ould  have  chosen 
for  Katherine  Dangerfield' s  affianced  husband.  Ar.d  Sir  John 
had  passed  the  night  in  a  sort  of  earthly  purgatory. 

"  Poor  old  Sir  John !  "  the  little  woman  said,  airily,  to  hei 
self;  "  I'm  really  concerned  for  him.  He  never  did  me  an) 
hajrm-~poor  old  soldier.  How  plainly  he  shows  his  abhorrence 
of  me  in  his  face  ;  foolish,  uncivilized  old  man.  If  his  precuu? 
daughter  were  not  so  wrapped  up  in  hi-r  curled  darling  ;!hr 
could  not  fail  to  see  it.  I  supi)ose  our  handsome  t^^nor  pic 
posed  in  the  conservatory?  What  a  cai)ital  joke  it  would  J^vf. 
to  let  him  marry  her  after  all,  and  then  speak  out  1  think  i\ 
«7ait  until  the  wedding  day.  Ah,  my  lady !  my  lady  !  You 
were  a  great  peeress  and  a  brilliant  woman  in  your  day,  bul 
5?oy're  dead  now,  .and  forgotten,  and  little  Harriet,  whom  you 
circnmvented  so  cleverly,  lives  still,  and  prospers,  and  hates 
fou  dead  as  she  hated  you  .dive." 

The  fire  still  burned  v.'\  llie  marble  hea-. ih,  the  waxlighti 
giJ.na'iiered  softly.  She  drew  the  wiitdow  curtain  and  looket.^ 
mil  Bt  the  rainy  morning  light  struggling  feebly  i-n  the  storui^si 


{I    I 


l« 


nRPORF   BREAh'PASr 


gray  sky.  The  elms  and  beeches  rocked  in  the  October  geUe. 
the  swaying  of  the  giant  trees  was  like  the  dull  roar  of  the  seit 
She  dropped  the  silken  curtain  with  a  shiver  and  lumcd  away^ 

"It  gives  me  the  horrors,"  she  muttered;  "it  makes  roa 
Sink  of  old  age,  and  death,  and  the  grave.  Will  I  live  to  be- 
some  old,  I  wonder  ?  and  will  \  have  money  enough  left  t© 
»y  hirelings  to  smooth  the  last  journey  ?  This  visit  to  Sussex 
<rin  surely  make  my  fortune,  as  well  as  give  me  my  revenge. 
-%jid  when  —all  is  over — I  will  go  back  to  Paris — oh,  my  beau 
dfiil  Paris  I  and  live  the  rest  of  my  life  there.  Whether  that 
Mfe  be  long  or  short  I  shall  at  least  have  enjoyed  every  hour  of 
it.  And,  my  lady,  I'll  be  even  with  you  to  the  last,  and  carry 
my  secret  to  the  grave. ' 

She  crossed  over  to  the  wardrobe  where  they  had  placed  hei 
trunks,  opened  one,  and  took  out  a  book  of  cigarette  papei 
And  an  embroidered  tobacco-case. 

"It's  no  use  going  to  bed,"  she  thought.  "I  never  can 
sleep  at  these  abnormal  hours.  A  cigarette  will  sooth  my 
nerves  better  than  slumber." 

She  began,  with  quick,  deft  fingers,  to  roil  half-a-dozen 
cigarettes,  and  then  lying  back  in  a  luxurious  arm-chair,  with 
two  slender  arched  feet  upon  the  fender,  to  light  and  smoke. 
One  after  another  she  smoked  them  to  the  very  last  ash.  The 
rainy  daylight  filled  the  room  as  she  flung  the  end  of  the  last 
inch  in  the  fire. 

She  arose  with  a  yawn,  extinguished  the  lights,  drew  the 
curtains  and  let  in  the  full  light  of  the  gray,  wet  morning.  The 
great  trees  rocked  wearily  in  the  high  gale,  a  low  leaden  sky 
lay  over  the  flat,  wet  downs,  and  miles  away  the  sea  melted 
drearily  into  the  horizon,  In  the  pale  bleak  light  brilliant  little 
Mrs.  Vavasor  looked  worn,  and  haggard,  and  ten  years  older 
than  last  night. 

"  Such  a  miserable  morning  !  What  a  wretch  I  must  look 
in  this  light.  Captain  Devere  paid  me  compliments  last  night, 
fell  in  love  with  me,  I  believe,  at  least  as  much  in  love  as  a 
heavy  dragoon  ever  can  fall.  If  he  saw  me  now  I  I  believe 
1 11  go  to  bed  after  all." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  went  to  bed,  and  her  eyes  closed  in  graceful 
Aaraber  before  her  head  was  fairly  on  the  pillow.  And  as  the 
kmd- voiced  clock  over  the  stables  chimed  the  quarter  past  ten 
lifete  came  floating  down  the  stairs  in  a  rosc-cashmerc  robt  iU 
matm^  and  all  her  feathery  black  ringlets  afloat. 

^  Am  I  %st,  I  wonder  ?  "   she  S£ud,  peeping  in.     "  Ah,  ne  \ 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


49 


ober  geUe, 
of  the  stijL 
tied  away. 
makes  ma 
live  to  be 
igh  left  t«? 

to  Sussex 
^  revenge. 

my  beau 
eth«r  that 
ry  hour  of 
and  carry 

)laced  hei 
:tte  papei 

lever  can 
sooth   my 

If-a-dozen 
hair,  with 
i  smoke, 
sh.  The 
f  the  last 


ic 


rew  the 
The 
L(len  sky 
melted 
ant  little 
irs  older 

ust  look 
St  night, 
>ve  as  a 
believe 

graceful 
as  the 
)a8t  ten 
robt  di 

^  ne: 


iear  Sir  John,  wliat  an  early  riser  you  always  were.  You  «Soiu  l 
fcffget  your  military  h&bits,  though  you  art  one  of  the  wetlthie*) 
baronets  in  Sussex." 

She  held  out  one  slcnflcr  white  hand  all  aglitter  with  riEgs 
But  as  he  had  refused  it  "last  night  so  the  baronet  ••efiised  tfef 
pr<^red  handclasp  this  morning.  He  stood  tall  and  stenv 
lad  g^rim  as  Rhadamanthus  himself,  drawn  up  to  his  full  hei^t 

"  We  Me  quite  alone,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  since  you  choose  tu 


sail  yourself  by  that  name,  and  we  can  afitbrd  to  drop  privat« 
theatricals.  I  fancied  you  would  be  down  before  Katherine, 
and  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  here  for  the  past  hour. 
Harriet  Hamian,  you  must  leave  Scarswood,  and  at  once." 

Sir  John's  guest  had  taken  a  tea-rose  from  a  glass  of  flowers 
t>Q  the  breakfast  table,  and  was  elaborately  fastening  it  ami^ 
the  luxuriance  of  her  black  hair.  She  laughed  as  her  host 
ceased  speaking,  and  made  the  rose  secure  ere  she  turned 
from  the  mirror. 

"  That  is  an  improvement,  I  think — yellow  roses  always  look 
well  in  black  hair.  What  did  you  say,  Sir  John  ?  Excuse  nay 
inattention,  but  the  toilette  before  everything  with  us  Paris- 
iennes.  I  must  leave  Scarswood  at  once  ?  Now,  really,  my 
dear  baronet,  that  is  a  phase  of  hospitality  it  strikes  me  not 
strictly  Arabian.     Why  must  I  go,  and  why  at  once?** 

"  Why  I  you  ask  that  question  ?  " 

*'  Certainly  I  ask  it.  Wliy  am  I  not  to  remain  at  Scarswood 
AS  long  as  I  please  ?  " 

"Because,"  the  Indian  officer  said,  frigidly.  "You  are  not 
fit  to  dwell  an  hour,  a  minute,  under  the  same  roof  with — with 
my  daughter.  If  you  had  possessed  a  woman's  heart,  a  shadon 
of  heart,  one  spark  of  wonxinly  feeling,  you  would  never  havt 
crossed  Katherine's  path." 

"  Again  I  ask  why  ?  " 

"  I  have  given  you  your  answer  already.     You  are  not  fit- 
fov  are  no  associate  for  any  young  girl.     I  know  the  life  yoM 
iasd  at  Homburg." 

'*'  You  do  ?  And  what  do  you  know  of  that  life  to  my  Ck^ 
tiedit  ? "  Mrs.  Vavasor  demanded,  in  her  sprightliest  manner 
"I  sadly  fear  some  malicious  person  has  been  poisoning  ycm 
simple  roind,  my  dear  Sir  John.  1  received  a  salary  at  Horn 
burg,  I  admit ;  I  lured  a  few  weak-minded  victims,  with  mor* 
money  than  brains,  to  the  Kursaai  ;  1  iJjainbled  ever  so  bttlc 
perhaps  my  sell.  But  what  vvouid  y^u  have?  Toor  htiit 
vmrKti  ranst  live,  penniless  widows  xxvisX  earn  their  bread  and 


4'!  ! 

I 


1 


( 

■ 

* 

'III 

■11 


^ 


BTsFORB   BHEAKFAsr. 


butter,  ,\j:d  1  ULmjicJ  avxoiding  to  my  light.  Who  can  blanit 
ir.c  ?  A  gambler's  decoy  is  not  a  vrry  ropntable  professiors, 
but  I  did  rKjf  select  it  because  1  liked  it.  As  you  s«,y  hftre  ii 
Eng*and,  it  wac  Hc;bson's  clioicc'  To  work  I  was  not  able, 
to  beg  I  was  ashamed.  And  1  gave  it  up,  when  I  heard  c 
four  good  fortune,  forever,  1  hope  I  pai<]  to  myself  *  Flaniet. 
r.hild,  wliy  lead  this  naughty  life  any  longer  ? — why  not  gite  r 
ap,  pack  your  tninks,  go  back  to  England,  and  become  viitn 
ous  and  happy  ?  Here  is  your  old  fnend — well,  acquainiance, 
dien — Colonel  Dangerhckl,  a  baronet  nuv/,  with  a  magnificent 
estate  in  Sussex,  and  eight  thousand  a  year.  Yon  did  him  good 
service  once — he  is  not  the  man  to  forget  past  favors  ;  he 
will  never  see  you  hungry  or  cold  any  more.  And  ki  petiU: 
is  there — the  little  Katherine,  whom  hfteen  years  ago  you  were 
so  fond  of — a  young  lady,  and  a  great  heiress  now.  To  see 
her  once  more,  grown  from  a  k)velv  English  Miss — what  lapt- 
urel" 

She  clasped  her  little  hands  with  a  very  foreign  gesture,  and 
iifted  two  great  imploring  eyes  to  his  face.  The  baronet 
signed  heavily. 

**  He?'  ''*>  help  you,  Harriet !  You  might  have  been  a  better 
woman  if  yon  had  loved  the  child,  or  anything  else.  But  you 
never  loved  any  human  creature  in  this  world  but  yourself,  and 
never  will.     1  suppose  it  is  not  in  your  nature." 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  swift  pallor  of  sudden  strong 
emotion  show  under  rouge  and  pearl  powder  ?  1 1  is  not  a 
pleasant  sight.  After  the  baronet's  last  words  there  was  a  dead 
pause,  and  in  the  dull,  chill  light  he  saw  that  giiastly  change 
come  over  her. 

"Never  loved  any  human  creatur"  in  this  world!"  She 
re|>eated  his  words  slowly  after  hl.uj  <\\ti\\  broke  suddenly  into 
a  ehirill  laugh.  "  Sir  John  Dangeifield,  after  half  a  century  erf 
iiii»  life's  vicissitudes,  the  power  to  be  astonished  at  anything 
earthly  should  have  left  all  men  and  wora<?n,  but  you  are  sixty 
odd,  are  you  not  ?  and  if  1  chose  1  coul<l  give  you  a  gUmpsfl 
of  sny  past  life  ihat  would  rather  lake  yoa  by  surprise.  But  I 
don't  choose — at  least  not  at  j -resent.  Think  me  heartless, 
liiiprincipled,  without  conscience  or  womanly  feeling — what 
yju  v/ill — what  does  anything  y\  this  lower  world  signify  except 
costly  dresses,  good  wines,  and  (\)iiifortable  incomes?  And 
t-hst  brings  me  back  to  the  ]XMnt,  arid  I  tell  yo^ii  coolly  and  de 
lisberatdy,  and  delemiinedly,  thai  I  won't  stir  one  step  fe:u?B 
^ftsifwood  Park  imtil  I  ner-  fft.-- 


8PF0RH    BREAKFAST, 


51 


can  bla-iitr 
profession, 
Ay  hfire  ir 
>  not  able. 
I  heard  c 
,  '  Ilam'et 
"iot  give  r 
ome  viitu 
jainiance. 
lagnificent 
I  him  good 
favors  ;  he 
\  ki  petitt 
»  you  were 
\  To  see 
what  lapt- 

isture,  and 
e  baronet 

n  a  better 
But  you 

rself,  and 

:n    strong 

is  not   a 

ras  a  dead 

ly  change 

! "  She 
|enly  into 
intury  of 
I  anything 
ire  sixty 
gUmpsfl 
But  I 
leartiesa, 
jg — wliat 
|y  except 
?  And 
an<i  (ie 
jp  Cro?B 


She  fohieii  hei  hands  one  over  the  '^ther,  and  locked  up  ia 
uifl  Ret,  stem  face,  with  zu  ai^cT^.ivating  s'nih'  on  her  owi. 

••  It  is  of  no  use  your  blustering  and  threatening  ;  il  yo« 
should  feel  inclined  tlial  way,  my  dear  baronet,  it  will  do  ne 
good  I  won't  go.  lUit  you  are  too  nmch  a  soldier  and  a 
5cntl<*imM  to  even  try  to  bully  a  T)Oor  little  woman  like  nie.  I 
7t4ve  an  object  in  view  in  coming  to  Scarswood  ;  when  *iJM 
^MT.t  is  attained,  1  shall  leave — not  one  instant  before." 

•And  your  object  is —  ?  " 

*'  A  secret  at  jfcsent,  Sir  John.  As  for  your  daughter,'' — 
(vith  sneering  emphasis--"  /sliould  be  the  best  judge,  I  think, 
?.s  to  whether  or  no  1  an\  a  fit  associate  for  her.  Miss  Danger- 
field  appears  to  be  a  yonng  lady  in  every  w:iy  'pialificd  to  take 
care  of  herself.  And  now,  dear  Sir  John,  as  we  thoroughly 
understand  each  other,  suppose  we  take  breakfast,  it  is  past 
ten,  and  1  am  iiiingiy." 

"  I  never  breakfast  without  Katherine,"  the  baronel  answered^ 
coldly.  "Mrs.  Harman  !  " — abruptly — "they  say  every  man 
has  his  price — will  you  name  yours,  and  leave  Srarswood 
forever  ? " 

"  Now  what  an  indehcate  way  of  putting  it — my  price  1 " 
She  laughed.  "  Well,  yes,  Sir  John,  I  don't  mind  owning  as 
much,  r  have  a  price.  Do  you  know  what  1  said  lo  mysell 
last  night  when  T  first  entered  Scarswood  ?  I  said  *  I  wonder 
if  Sir  John  would  marry  me  if  I  asked  him  ? '  And  Sir  John,  1 
wonder  if  you  wuuld  ?  '' 

"Mrs.  llaiiuan,"  the  Indian  officer  answered,  with  a  look 
of  disgust  and  contempt,  "let  us  keep  to  the  subject  in 
hand,  if  you  j /lease  T  am  in  no  humor  for  witticisms  thiji 
morning." 

"  Which,  crai.sb.ted,  means,  I  suppose,  you  would  not  n^arry 
>iie.  It's  not  leap-year,  I  am  aware,  and  my  proposal  may  be 
a  little  o;jl  of  place.  But  just  think  a  moment,  Sir  John — 
<»l\at  if  the  telling  of  yoor  s^^^cret  depended  on  it,  and  1  should 
tx;al)y  like  to  be  my  lady  ? — what  then  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Hinr.an.  if  you  say  another  word  of  this  kind  [  will 
!ar»i  you  out  of  me  house.  Am  i  to  understand,  then,  it  ia  to 
*U  you  have  come  hither  ?  " 

His  voice  b.okc  a  little,  the  strong,  sinewy  hand  that  lay 
ttpon  the  broad  nndovv-sill,  clenched.  He  bore  hinifelf 
b3-?a'cly  hefor.'  her.  hvA  th'-'re  was  mortal  fear  and  mortMi 
ti'gmah  m  the  old  boicUer  s  blue  eyes. 

■'  fVsy  (VmVs  »«ike  telj  me  the  tnith  ! "  he  said.     **  What  h??v'.i 


1  i 


i' 


I    ■ 


^  BEFaHE  BREAKFAST. 

fO«  (some  to  do  ?     1  saw  yuu  in  thti  conservatofy  iMt  nigta 
alone  with  my  nephew — do  you  mean  to  tell  him  t " 

There  vi  as  an  easy -chair  close  to  the  window ;  the  widow 
MUik  down  in  its  silken  cushions — all  this  time  they  had  bee* 
•landing — and  she  flung  back  her  little,  dainty,  ringleted  head 

"As  this  conversation  will  be  prolonged,  no  doubt,  wrnii 
Wies  Dangertield  ap])ears,  we  may  as  well  take  a  seat.  So  yoi- 
•aw  me  in  ths  conservatory  last  night  with  your  nephew  1  i 
Jid  not  knoi«^  you  did  uie  the  honor  to  watch  me,  Sir  Jc^n 
Well,  yes,  I  was  in  the  conservatory  last  night  with  Mr.  Petei 
Dangerfield." 

" And  you  told  him  all?" 

"  1  told  him — nothing  1  My  dear  old  baronet,  what  au  iiii 
becile  you  must  think  me.  Why  should  1  tell  him  ? — a  puoi 
little  pettifogging  attorney.  I  only  drew  him  out  theie-rea<? 
Vim,  you  know — and  he  is  very  large  print,  indeed,  f/oe  tc 
«he  man  or  woman  that  itands  in  his  paA  to  fortune  I — better 
for  them  they  had  never  been  bom.  He  never  felt  a  touch  ol 
pity  or  mercy  in  his  life  for  any  living  thing,  and  u^/er  will." 

"  I  know  it !  "  the  barc^net  said  with  a  groan.  *'  I  know  ii.  too 
well  My  hfe  has  been  a  life  of  terror  since  ti.i^  inheritance 
fell  to  me — fearing  him,  fearing  you.  If  he  hnA  been  any  othei 
kind  of  a  man  than  the  kind  he  is,  I — think-  -f  know  I  would 
have  braved  all  consequences  and  told  hiM  the  truth,  and 
dirown  myself  upon  his  generosity.  My  liie  has  been  one  pro- 
longed misery  since  we  came  to  Scarst/ood.  I  knew  if  you 
were  alive,  you  would  hunt  me  down  us  you  have.  It  would 
lie  better  for  me  I  were  a  beggar  on  t!.ie  streets." 

Mrs.  Vavaior  listened  to  this  passionate  tirade  with  airiest 
indifference. 

**  Then  so  and  be  a  beggar  trt<  the  streets,"  she  responded  , 
'^nothing  is  easier.  Throw  yuurself  upon  your  nephew's 
.generosity — tell  him  that  littiw  episode  in  both  our  lives  thai 
Happened  in  the  Paris  hospitii  fifteen  years  ago — tell  him,  and 
ue«  how  generous,  how  magnanimous  he  can  be.  You  saw  me 
^kin^  to  him,  you  say,  in  the  conservatory  last  night.  Would 
ftm  like  to  know  what  we  were  talking  about?  Well^^ 
Katherine ! " 

He  stood  and  Icwked  down  at  the  small  mocking  face,  and 
tkit  deri8i>  e  blacJD  eyes,  gnawing  the  ends  of  his  gray  mustache 

**  Of  Katherine,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  said.  "  He  told  me  1m  re 
tteiubered  her  an  infant  here — in  this  very  house,  that  ikc  wa< 
ew)  year*  oild  when  she  left  England  with  papa  and  nnm^ma. 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST, 


SI 


w ;  the  wido« 
they  had  bee* 
ringleted  head 
?  doubt,  amt» 
I  seat.  So  y%ii- 
ir  nephew  1  j 
nie,  Sir  J<Ac 
irith  Mr.  Pete» 


%  what  aks  nii 
him  ? — a  pooi 
Lit  theie-reat' 
eed.  iVoe  to 
tunc  I — better 
felt  d  touch  o1 
:i4/cr  will." 
'  I  know  ii  too 
[i^  inheritance 
►een  any  othei 
know  I  would 
le  truth,  and 
jeen  one  pro- 
knew  if  you 
I'e.     It  would 

e  with  airiest 

responded , 
ur  nephew'^ 
ur  lives  thai 
tell  him,  and 
lYou  saw  me 
ght.  Would 
1?    WeU-~d 

ig  face,  and 

[y  mustache. 

tne  he  re 

^c  wa( 

BWrcma. 


I  asked  kiia  if  he  recalled  her  looks  hfteen  fetft  tfo^  b«l 

naturally  he  did  not" 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed  at  some  inward  joke. 

"  Do  you  know,  Sir  John,  he  is  in  love  with  the  heireii  d 
Scarswood,  and  would  marry  her  if  she  would  let  him  ?  He 
proposed  last  night—" 

"  What ! "  the  baronet  cried  eagerly ;  '*  he  asked  KatheriM 
to  marry  him  ?    And  she-— what  did  she  say  ?  " 

«  Called  him  a  rickety  dwarf — truthful,  but  unpleasant— -and 
said  n0  as  your  high-spinted  daughter  knows  how  to  say  it 
He's  not  handsome,  and  Miss  Dangerfield  dearly  loves  beauty. 
She  resembles  her  mother  in  many  things — in  that  among  the 
rest  She  refused  Mr.  Dangerfield  last  night — still  I  think,  my 
dear  baronet,  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  congratulating  you 
npon  the  accession  of  a  son-in-law." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Excuse  me  ;  our  haughty  little  Kaiherine  might  not  thank 
me  for  meddling  with  her  affaires  du  cceur.  And  I  wish  so  much 
to  stand  well  with  the  dear  child.  So  affectionate  a  daughter 
can  have  no  secrets  from  you — she  will  tell  you  all  about  it  her- 
selfl  no  doubt,  before  the  day  ends.  And,  Sir  John,  I  can  safely 
promise  you  this  much — I  shall  leave  Scarswood  before  youi 
daughter's  wedding  day,  to  return  no  more." 

He  looked  at  her  in  painful,  anxious  silence.  He  felt  that 
behind  her  words  a  covert  threat  lay. 

"  Before  her  wedding  day.  The  child  is  but  seventeen  and 
not  likely  tJ  marry  for  four  or  five  yearc  yet.  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean,  Hsjriet.  For  pity  sak("  speak  plainly — let  us 
understand  each  other  if  we  can.  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  upon 
yeu,  Heaven  knows.  1  would  pi>iir  out  money  like  water  to 
seciu'e  my  darling's  happiness — and  yon-oh  surely!  of  all  the 
Gre&tures  on  earth,  you  should  be  the  last  lo  harm  her.  Don't 
betray  me — don't  betray  her — don't  min  her  life.  1  know  I 
ought  to  tell ;  honor,  truth,  with  all  the  instincts  of  my  life, 
■life  me  to  speak,  but  I  know  so  well  what  the  result  would  be, 
tad  [  dare  not  I "  A  stilled  sob  shook  the  old  soldiers  voice. 
"  I  love  her  better  than  ever  father  loved  a  child  before — bet- 
ter I  think  than  ever,  if  that  were  possible,  since  this  new  dan 
{cr  threatened.  If  you  keep  silence  there  is  nothing  to  fear. 
D  Heaven's  name,  Harriet,  mention  any  sum  you  like,  howevcf 
exoriiitant,  and  leave  this  house  at  once  and  forever." 

Sie  £at  and  listened,  witnout  one  touch  of  pity  for  the  love 
dN  OMld  &ot  fiEthova }  ahf;  9»*  «^^  wiitdieii  hin»  wkhont  cnut 


' 


.1 


;^ 


94 


HKtOKK   HkKAhFAST. 


softening  gUrce  of  the  hard  eyes.     There  was  an  iinpleaaacr 

Kyhliiess  about  the  thin  lijis,  \u  alnost  dia^»olical  malice  in  hei 
furtive  gaze. 

"  1  will  take  Icn  tliousand  pounds,  and  I  will  leave  Sc«r» 
wood  a  week  preceding  Misb  Dangci field's  wedding  day.  'Dv* 
»aoner  that  Clz)  is  nanicd  the  lietler.     That  is  niy  uihma.fum.** 

**  A  week  before  her  wedding  day  I  Why  do  you  harj)  f>*> 
^hat?  I  tell  you  sh'  has  no  idea  of  being  married  for  year*-- 
»  ciii'cl  of  seventeen  !  " 

*  And  1  tell  you  she  lias.  Children  of  seventeen  in  lliis  yeaji 
it  grace  have  very  grown  up  notions.  Miss  Dangerfield  had 
two  proposals  of  marriage  last  night  ;  one  she  refused,  one  shr 
accepted.  If  you  have  patitnt:c.  your  future  son-in-iaw  will  b< 
here  for  his  answer  before  dinner.  As  Katherine  wnl  oe  on  his 
aide,  your  answer  wiD  be,  '  Yes,'  of  course,  though  he  were  the 
veriest  blackguard  in  En^iand.  If  that  tall  slip  of  a  girl  told 
vou  to  swear  black  was  white,  you  would  swear  it,  and  half  be- 
lieve you  were  not  perjuring  yvmrself.  You  are  too  old  to  learn 
wisdom  now,  my  poor  Sir  John  ;  but  if  you  were  a  younger 
man,  I  would  try  and  convince  you  of  the  folly  of  loving,  witli 
such  blind,  dog-like  devotion,  any  creature  on  this  earth.  No 
one  alive  is  worthy  of  it — least  oi  all  a  woman.  You  woulc^ 
die  to  make  her  happy  ;  more,  the  soul  of  honor,  by  training 
and  instinct,  you  are  y<}t  ready  to  commit  ^/ishonor  for  hei 
sake.  And  she — if  you  stand  between  her  and  this  good-look 
adventurer,  only  seen  for  the  tirst  time  a  few  weeks  ago,  she 
will  set  you  down  for  a  very  tyrant  and  monster,  and  run  away 
to  Scotland  with  him  the  instant  lie  asks  her.  Oh,  yes  she  will ! 
I'sK.  a  woman,  and  T  know  my  sex.  They're  like  cats — stroke 
them  the  right  way  and  th-ey'll  purr  forever  ;  stroke  them  the 
wrong  way,  a\^  their  sharp  claws  are  into  your  flesh,  though 
yo«;3  the  hand  that  has  fed  and  caressed  them  all  their  life. 
Katherine  is  no  worse  than  the  rest,  and  when  she  leaves  you 
and  nms  away  with  /«;«,  she  is  only  true  to  her  feline  nature 
I  mil  take  ten  thousand  pounds,  cash  down,  one  week  befor? 
die  day  fixed  for  Kathic's  wedding,  and  I'll  leave  Scarswtxnl, 
gaud  you,  and  her,  forever — with  the  secret  untold.  The  soone? 
^at  weddmg  day  is  fixed,  the  sooner  you  aie  rid  o(  rac.  And 
ril  never  come  back  -  I'll  ne\  er  ask  you  for  another  stiver 
Now  we  understand  each  other,  and  we'll  get  alf..>ng  comfortably, 
f  hope.  Don't  let  ns  talk  any  more  on  this  subject,  it  isn't  a 
;  '*2a«au't  ens;  and,  Sir  John,  do,  do  ti7  and  look  &  little  lesf 
A  martyr  9n  tlie  TiLck  I     D<  r/t  w  -?j  your  heart  on  fo»j 


•-K, 


msroiai  bkhakfast. 


IS 


i  an  tinpleaMusr 
al  malice  in  hct 

ill  leave  Scan 
cling  clay.    TKi 
\\y  uihrnafum^ 
o  you  harj)  oi» 
■ied  for  years  -  - 

;ceu  in  lliis  y&kt 
danger  field  had 
efiiscd,  one  shr 
in-in-luw  will  b< 
le  will  oe  on  his 
igli  he  were  the 
p  of  a  girl  told 
it,  and  half  be- 
too  old  to  learn 
vere  a  younger 
of  loving,  with 
this  earth.     No 
n.      You  would 
or,  by  training 
lonor  for  hei 
lis  good-look 
veeks  ago,  she 
and  run  away 
,  yes  she  will  ! 
cats — stroke 
roke  them  the 
iiesh,  though 
1  all  their  life, 
he  leaves  you 
feline  nature 
week  beforf 
e  Scarswood^ 
The  soone? 
of  me.     And 
iiothcr  stiver 
comfortably, 
ject,  it  isn't  a 
a  little  lesf 
leart  on  vou» 


Itr  the  daws  of  society  to  peck  at.     You  know  that  tif*- 

lorae  stciry  of  the  Spartan  boy  and  the  foK,  or  wolf— which  wu 
it  ?  The  animal  gnawed  at  his  vitals,  but  h<;  kept  his  cloak  ireli 
over  it  and  bore  the  agony  with  a  smiling  face.  1  think  th4l 
horrible  little  brute  lays  hold  of  all  mankind,  sooner  or  later; 
■:>nly  some  suffer  and  make  no  sigri,  and  others  go  through  the 
yorld  howling  aloud  over  the  pain,  /have  hid  my  wolf  for  the 
ast  nineteen  years — you  would  not  think  it,  would  yoaf 
OoD't  let  everybody  see  you  have  a  secret,  in  your  face,  ot 
they  may  find  it  out  for  themselves,  if  you  do.  Here  comet 
our  little  truant  at  last :  and  Dieu  merci^  for  1  am  absolute!]! 
^mished  1 " 

Clearing  the  last  three  steps  with  a  jump,  according  to  cus- 
tom, all  fluttering  in  crisp  white  muslin,  and  lit  up  with  brighi^ 
ribbons,  Katherine  came  into  the  room,  her  happy  face  sun* 
ghiny  enough  to  illuminate  all  Sussex. 

*'  Late  again,  papa,"  throwing  her  arms  round  him  aftei  hei 
Impetuous  fashion  and  giving  him  a  sounding  kiss;  "but  last 
night  was  an  exceptional  occasion  in  one's  life  ;  one  was  priv- 
ileged to  oversleep  one's  self  this  morning.  Oh,  papa  !  "  with 
a  little  fluttering  sigh,  "  what  a  perfectly  delicious  party  it  was  I " 

♦*  My  dear,"  her  father  said,  in  a  constrained  sort  of  voice, 
'  don't  you  see  Mrs.  Vavasor  ?  " 

She  had  not  until  that  moment.  In  her  own  happiness  sh« 
had  forgotten  the  very  existence  of  her  father's  guest.  Her 
face  clouded  ever  so  slightly  now  as  she  turned  to  meet  the 
little  woman's  gushing  greeting. 

"  Dearest  Kathertne — oh,  I  really  must  call  you  Katherin« 
—how  well,  how  bright  you  are  look  ng  this  morning.  I^ook 
at  that  radiant  face,  Sir  John,  and  tell  me  would  you  think  this 
child  had  danced  twenty-four  consecutive  times  last  night  ?  j 
counted,  my  pet,"  with  her  tinkling  laugh — "  danced  until  broac^ 
h^y  this  morning.  Ah  hcv  delightful  to  be  sweet  seventeet 
and  able  to  look  like  this  after  a  long  night's  steady  waltzing/ 

She  would  have  kissed  her,  but  Katherine's  crystal  clear  eyf< 
detected  the  rouge  on  her  lips,  and  Katherine,  who  never  re 
astcd  an  impulse  in  her  whole  life,  shrank  back  pal})ably. 

**  What  1 "  Mrs.  Vavasor  exclaimed  gayly ;  "  you  won't  kiss  me, 
FOB  proud  little  English  girl  ?  Never  mind,  I  foresee  we  shall 
ix?  ereat  friends—don't  you  think 


oaothvi's  sake, 


i> 


so,  Sir  John  ?  if  only  for  hef 


u 


My  mother's  sake  I  '  Katherine  rc^^sated.     **  Yon  hce^ 


m^  MBthfflT? 


|4  ASKlNiM   /iV  MARRsAGE, 

'*Vefj  welly  indeed,  my  dear— 1  waa  her 
friend.  And  you  are  like  her — like  her  every  way — in  Cms,  li 
Mannei,  iii  vuice.  1  should  have  been  foiid  of  you  in  any  cai% 
but  since  you  resenable  your  mother  lo  strongly,  think  hni  1 
lore  you  now  1 " 


\ 


IMJ  I 


CHAPTER  VL 


ASKINO  IN   MARRUCIS. 


|RS.  VAVASOR  might  be  never  so  vivacious,  but  it 

was  a  very  silent,  not  to  say  gloomy,  meal.  Sir  John 
sat  moodily,  eating  little,  and  watching  his  daughter 
with  strange  new  interest  in  his  eyes.  His  perplexi- 
ties jeemed  thickenmg  around  him.  It  was  surely  bad  enough  to 
have  this  obnoxious  visitor  on  his  hands,  without  an  objection' 
able  son-in-law  flung  in  his  face  willy-nilly  also.  Who  could 
the  roan  be  ?  He  had  not,  if  you  will  believe  it,  the  remotest 
idea.  He  had  been  so  completely  absorbed  by  his  espionage 
over  the  little  widow  all  night  that  he  had  scarcely  once  re- 
marked his  daughter.  Who  can  the  man  be?  He  thought 
over  the  list  of  his  unmarried  masculine  guests  and  lit  upon  Cap* 
tain  De  Vere,  of  the  Plungers,  as  the  man. 

"  And  if  it  be  he,"  the  baronet  thought  with  an  inward  groan, 
**  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  before 
the  wedding.  And  how  will  it  be  then  ?  He  is  a  very  heavy 
swell,  De  Vere,  and  will  one  day  write  his  name  high  in  the 
peerage.  He  may  be  in  love  with  Katherine  now — how  will  it 
be  when  he  knows  the  truth  ?  Heaven  help  me  I  was  evf*t 
■nan  so  badgered  as  I  am  ?  " 

Katherine  was  very  silent,  too  ;  even  her  hearty  girl's  mom- 
faig  appetite  seemed  to  have  failed  her.  She  trifled  with  whaii^ 
lay  on  her  plate,  a  tender  half-smile  on  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes. 
Lcme  had  taken  away  appetite.  How  handsome  he  had 
looked !  the  mellow  lamp-light  of  the  conservatory  streaming 
across  his  dark,  southern  beauty.  How  nobly  he  had  spoken  I 
And  he  had  feared  refusal — this  darling  of  the  gods  I  He  had 
thought  himseii'  unworthy  the  heiress  of  Scanwood-4M  who 
V99  watStq  1^  hcnresi  oi  a  ^one  i 


ASKING    t^'  MARR'ACE. 


VI 


r — in  Cms,  it 
I  in  tmy 


thiak 


cious,  but  it 
al.     Sir  John 

his  daughter 
His  perplexi- 
)ad  enough  to 
an  ubjection- 
Who  could 
the  remotest 
lis  espionage 
:ely  once  re- 
He  thought 
lit  upon  Cap- 

iward  groan, 

of  it  before 

very  heavy 

high  in  the 

how  will  il 

1  was  ev^f 

girl's  mom- 
Id  with  whw 

in  her  eycb. 

line  he  had 

streaming 

lad  spoken  t 

I     He  had 


••I  am  glad  I  am  an  hcirt'ss  fof  his  sake,"  she  thought:  **  i 
Mily  with  my  thousatulb  were  miliiiJiih!  Oh,  (iabtun  I  to  thinil 
that  your  poverty  wouUl  be  any  obstacle  u,  me.  I  am  glad  yo* 
gXK  i)Oor — yes,  glad,  that  1  may  give  you  all  :  that  I  may  be  ia 
every  way  the  good  aiigcl  of  your  life  !" 

Mrs.  Vavasor,  chattering  cheerily  on  all  imaginable  whjrrtnL 
iskcd  her  a  question.  It  had  to  be  repeated  ere  it  reached  h» 
ear,  dulled  by  her  blissful  trance.     She  lifted  hex  dicajny  cyt* 

"  What  did  you  say,  madame  ?" 

Mrs.  Vavasor's  rather  shrill  laugh  chimed  forth. 

"What  did  I  say,  madame  !  and  I  have  asked  her  three  timet. 
No,  my  dear,  I'll  net  repeat  my  question  as  to  whether  you^U 
drive  me  to  Castleford  if  it  clears  up,  as  I  see  it  is  going  to  do, 
being  quite  certain  you  will  have  other  and  pleasanter  com- 
pany. Look  at  that  abstracted  face,  Sir  John,  and  tell  nie 
what  you  think." 

The  baronet's  answer  was  a  sort  of  groWi,  as  he  rose  abruptiy 
from  the  table. 

"  I  am  going  to  my  study,  Katherine,  and  1  want  to  speak  to 
you — will  you  come  ?  " 

"Speak  to  me,  pa{)a?"  Katherine  repeated,  faintly,  her  color 
coming  and  going  nervously  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

"Yes."  He  oftered  her  his  arm,  looking  grimmer  than 
the  had  ever  seen  him  in  all  her  experience.  "  Mrs.  Vavasof 
will  find  some  other  means  of  amusing  herself  besides  that  drive 
to  Castleford.  My  carriage  and  coachman  are  at  her  service 
tf  she  really  desires  it." 

"  Very  well,  papa,"  Miss  Dangerfield  responded,  with  a  meek- 
ness very  diflferent  from  her  usual  manner  of  frank  impertinence 
which  sat  so  well  upon  her.  "  Could  he  know  ?  "  »he  was  think- 
ing in  some  trepidation.  "  Can  he  know  so  soon  ?  Did  he  sea 
us  last  night  in  the  conservatory  together  ?  and,  oh  !  what  wiU 
he  say?" 

Mrs.  Vavasor  watched  the  stalwart,  soldierly  figure,  and  th« 
•light  girlish  form  on  his  arm  from  sight,  with  a  hard,  cold  ght- 
ter  in  her  black  eyes. 

"Your  coachman  is  at  my  service,  Sir  John,  Uit  you:  daugh- 
ter is  not  And  her  Royal  Highness,  the  Princess  of  Scara- 
wood,  would  not  let  me  kiss  her  this  morning  1  I  .ike  her  mothet 
again,  very  much  like  her  mother  indeed.  And  I  have  a  good 
nemory  for  all  slights,  little  and  groat." 

Sir  John's  study  was  a  cosey  room,  on  the  same  flr>or  with  th^ 
breakuMit  j^lor,  and  commanding  a  view  ol  «he  entrance  avt* 


'^m 


I  , 


Si 


iyyftrhrr  /V  MAt^kTAOP 


Hue  with  its  arr.hing  elms.  Ht*  placcc)  a  chair  for  his  danghtef, 
■till  in  grim  sileixc,  aiid  Katherinc  sank  intu  it  in  a  little  flut 
f«r  of  apprehension.  Fear  was  a  weakness  that  perhaps  had 
•cvei  troubled  the  girl  in  hf^r  life.  Whatever  the  blood  in  her 
veins,  it  was  at  least  thoroughly  brave.  And,  womanlike,  it  wvk 
more  for  her  lover  than  herself  she  trembled  now. 

"Papa  won't  like  it,'  she  tiiought.  *' G'\ston'g  poverty  wiE 
^  a  drawb?.ck  lo  him.  He  will  forget  he  was  poor  him^el! 
only  half  a  year  ago,  and  refuse  his  consent.  No,  he  won't  d© 
that ;  he  would  consent  to  anything,  I  think,  sooner  than  se« 
me  miserable." 

"  Katherine,"  her  father  began,  abruptly,  "  Peter  Dangerfield 
proposed  last  night." 

Katherine  looked  up  with  a  start.  Nothing  was  further  from 
her  thoughts  at  that  moment  than  her  cousin  Peter — she  had 
entirely  forgotten  him  and  their  c[uarrel  of  last  night  "  Peter  ? 
Oh,  yes,  papa,  I  forgot  all  aboiii  it." 

"Humph!  highly  complimentary  to  Peter.  1  need  hardlj 
ask  if  you  refused  him,  Miss  Dangerfield?" 

"Certainly  1  refused  him  !"  Miss  Dangeriield  retorted,  hei 
spirits  rismg,  now  she  had  found  her  tongue,  "  and  his  declara- 
tion ended  in  no  end  of  a  row."  The  heiress  of  Scarswood 
was  a  tritle  slangy  at  tinu-s.  "  I  lost  my  temjjer — that's  the 
truth — at  one  thing  he  said,  and  spoke  to  him  as  1  had  no  busi- 
ness to.  Pm  sorry  now,  and  1  ai)ologized,  but  I  know  he'll 
never  forget  or  forgive  the  affront.  He's  one  of  your  nice,  quiet, 
inoffensive  people  who  go  to  church  three  times  every  Sunday, 
and  who  never  do  forgive  anything." 

"  Whaf  did  you  say  ?  " 

Papa's  voice  was  terribly  stern — for  him.  Miss  DangerfieW 
hang  her  head  in  deserved  contrition. 

"  Papa  I  you  know  what  an  abominable  temper  Pve  got,  an.-^ 
etiJl  more  abominable  tongue — J  called  him  a  rickety  dwarf." 

'' Katherine  r' 

"  I'm  sorry,  papa,"  Katherine  repeated  a  little  sullenly,  and 
:z»t  looking  up.  "  1  apologized  ;  it  is  ail  I  can  do  j  it's  said, 
and  can't  be  recalled  !     Scolding  will  do  no  good  now." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  A  pallor  that  eveii  bei 
wicked  words  ijeemed  too  trilling  to  call  there  overspread  his 

"A  bad  business!"  he  muttered,  "Peter  Dangcificld  v?iii 
•ever  fia^t  or  forgive  your  insult  as  long  as  he  lives.  Heav«9 
Mp  yon  D^^>  diild,  if  you  a£«  eve;  in  his  power^^ 


\   \ 


.rv/r-.'A\;  //v   marhiacr 


%^ 


dang[h«e9, 
little  fiut 
haps  haiS 
lod  in  her 
ike,  it 


iverty  wiE 

)r  him^eli 

won't  de 

than  se« 

angerfield 

rther  from 

— she  had 

"  Peter  ? 

ed  hardlj 

orted,  hei 
is  declara- 
pcarswood 
that'G  the 
d  no  busi- 
now  he'll 
lice,  quiet, 
y  Sunday, 


•angerfiield 

e  got,  aTi»"f 
dwarf." 

llenly,  and 

;  it's  said, 

w." 

:  even  bet 

spread  his 

ei field  v?ial 
Heave* 


**  In  his  power  1  in  I'ctcrs  !"  is.aiherinc  ;jai..i,  iftinghe/  heani 
"laughtily.  "  UHiat  norscnst.',  jjapa  !  .;>f -T/ur-.c  ]  IiaII  iit'ver  Ix: 
in  his  power.  And  he  provoked  me  into  sisini'^  it,  if  it  comet 
vO  that  I  VVhal  i>usincss  liad  iic  to  spoal<  as  le  did,  lo  in- 
3alt — "  Miss  Dangcrfie'.d  |>ulled  herself  up  vviii  a  icrk,  and 
iooked  up. 

"  Insult  whom,  my  daughtfir  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,  papa — a  friend  of  mine." 

"And  a  rival  of  his.     Was  it  Capt:iin  l)e  V{^e,  Kathie?" 

*  Captain  De  Vere  !  Oh  dear,  uo,  !>aj)a  !  Ca()tairj  I)e  Vere 
yin  fight  his  own  battles — he's  big  enough  and  old  enough. 
He  has  nothing  to  do  with  me." 

"Then  somebody  else  has.  You  are  kecp.ng  something 
kovci  me,  and  that  is  not  like  you,  Kathie.  You  had  anothei 
proposal  last  night." 

Katherine  looked  at  her  father  m  sheer  amaze. 

"  VYhy,  papa,  you  must  be  a  wizard — how  do  you  find  these 
things  out?     Did — did  you  see  me  in  the  conservatory?" 

"/did  not — I  did  not  deem  it  was  necessary  to  place  Kath 
trine  Dangerfield  under  surveillatice  at  her  hrst  party." 

" Papa  I " 

"  Oh,  child  I  You  compel  me  to  say  cruel  tilings.  The 
rorkl  will  watch  you  if  1  do  not,  and  report  all  shortcomings." 

"The  world  may,"  Katherine  said,  proudly.  '  I  have  done 
LXJthing  wiong — 1  know  who  has  told  you — you  would  never 
play  the  spy ;  it  was  that  odious  woman  in  the  breakfast  room. 
Wlio  is  she,  papa,  and  what  does  slie  do  here,  and  how  long  \h 
she  going  to  stay?  I  don't  know  anything  about  her,  but  I 
hate  her  pdready.     Who  is  slie  ?  " 

"  She  \s  Mrs.  Vavasor.  N'iver  mind  her  at  present,  my  dear 
—you  are  the  subject  under  discussion.  We  have  not  come  to 
this  other  lover  yet — lot  us  come  to  him  at  once.  Two  lovers  I 
wid  yesterday  1  thought  you  a  child.  Well,  well !  it  is  the  way 
\A  the  world — the  female  portion  of  it  at  least.  Katherine,  whd 
i3  the  man  ?  " 

She  looked  up — grew  very  pale — met  her  father's  stem,  sor 
fctrwful  eyes,  and  looked  down. 

•*  It  is--papa,  papa  !  don't  be  angry.  Fie  can't  help  being 
poor — and  I — I  like  hiui — so,"  with  little  gasps.  "  Oh,  i>apa, 
plcaae  !  You  never  wera  cruel  to  your  little  Kathie  in  all  jqi^ 
life— please  diyn't  begin  now  1 " 

He  stooti  very  still,  listening  to  this  outburst  with  a  fiicc  thai 
pew  every  moment  graver. 


ASXmG  IN  MARRUGE, 


''And  it  needs  fmch  a  preface  as  this  !  Yoa  have-  t%  i^  lat 
km  him  before  even  you  tell  his  name.     Who  is  he,  K&tkie  t " 

She  got  up,  flung  her  aims  round  him,  and  hid  her  fai^  on 
lit  shoulder. 

"  It  is — pa])a,  p-p-please  don't  be  angry.  It  is  Gaston  1>*r 
tree\" 

The  murder  was  out !  Of  all  the  men  he  had  thought  ol,  k 
iMid  never  once  thought  of  him.  Gaston  Dantree  1  An  uttc. 
stranger — a  singer  of  songs — his  voice  giving  him  the  entrt^ 
into  houses  where  else  he  had  never  set  his  foot.  A  schencf 
pfobably — an  adventurer  certainly — a  foreigner  also — and  Sir 
John  DangerfieM  had  all  your  true-born  Briton's  hearty  detes- 
tation of  foreigners. 

"  Kathie,"  he  could  just  exclaim  ;  "  that  man  I  " 

"I  love  him,  papa!"  she  whispered,  between  an  impulsive 
shower  of  coaxing  kisses  ;  "  and  oh,  please  don't  call  him  that 
man  !  He  may  be  poor  ;  but  he  is  so  good,  so  noble— dearer, 
better  every  Tfay  than  any  man  I  ever  knew.  If  you  had  only 
heard  him  talk  last  night,  papa  !  " 

"  Talk  I  Yes,  I  dare  say."  The  baronet  laughed — a  dreary- 
Vunding  laugh  enough.  "  It  ia  his  stock  in  trade — that  silvery 
ienor  of  his  ;  and  all  adventurers  possess  the  gift  of  gab.  It  is 
the  rubbish  that  keeps  them  afloat." 

"  An  adventurer,  papa  !  You  have  no  right  to  call  him  that 
Yoa  don't  know  him — you  should  not  judge  him.  He  may  be 
poor ;  but  poverty  is  his  only  disgrace.  He  does  not  deserve 
that  opprobrious  name  !  " 

"  It  would  be  difficult,  indeed,  to  say  ^'hat  name  Mr.  GastoD 
Dantree  does  not  deserve.  A  pennilefo  stranger  who  could 
deliberately  set  himself  to  work  to  steal  the  affections  of  a  child 
like  you — for  your  fortune  alone  !  That  will  do,  Katherine  :  1 
know  what  I  am  talking  jbout — I  have  met  men  like  Mr.  Gas 
•on  Dantree  -fore.  And  I  have  no  right  to  judge  him — thl 
&ief  who  comes  to  steal  away  my  tieasure  !  Child— child  j 
3rou  have  disappointed  me — ^you  have  disappointed  me  moft 
khan  I  can  say." 

He  sighed  bitterly,  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand; 
Katherine's  arm  tightened  imploringly  round  his  neck. 

"  But  not  angered  you,  papa,  not  grieved  you  ;  don't  say  1 
have  done  that !  "  She  cried  faintly,  hiding  her  face.  "  Dear 
flat,  best  father  that  ever  was  in  this  world,  don't  say  yoa  ast 
aragrv  wi^  Katherine — lor  the  first,  the  only  time  I " 

**  Heaven  knows,  my  deai^  I  cauld  not  bo  vaffj  wA  fon  t 


<-, 


ASKING    FN  MAFKIAGR. 


fl 


e,  KidsAc  t " 
d  her  fai^  on 

I  Gaston  1>ai& 

thought  ol,  k 
:e  1  An  uttc. 
irn  the  enfrfi 
A  schemcf 
also — and  Sir 
hearty  deie«> 

an  impulskvft 
call  him  thai 
loble — dearer, 

you  had  only 

ed — a  dreary- 
— that  silvery 
of  gab.     It  is 

call  him  that 

He  may  be 

s  not  deserve 

e  Mr.  GastoD 
*r  who  could 
ons  of  a  child 
K-atherioe :  I 
like  Mr.  Ga» 
ge  him^ — thi 
hild— child  j 
ted  me  mort 

his  handj 
eck. 

don't  say  1 
ICC.     "  Deaf 
■ay  yoo  act 
I" 
'With  foaS 


1  tried,  l-ift  ap  your  head,  Kathie,  and  give  me  a  kisn.  IVn'* 
cry  for  youi  new  toy,  luy  child  ;  yuu  ihal'  .iUve  it,  *&  )ou  iu...  • 
had  all  the  rest.  Only  whatever  happens  in  the  future,  Joii'i 
blame  me.     Remember  that  I  have  nothing  but  your  liappinerf 

at  heart." 

Her  impetuous  kisses,  her  happy  tear?  thanked  him.  Since 
!ier  childhood  he  had  not  seen  her  weep  before,  and  the  sigiit 
woved  him  strangely. 

"  And  when  am  I  to  see  him,  Katherine  ?  "  he  asked ;  "when 
h-  this  unknown  hero,  without  money  in  his  pnrsc,  coming  tvi 
claim  the  heiress  of  Scarswood?  It  requires  some  courage, 
doubtless,  to  face  the  *  heavy  father ; '  but  1  suppose  he  does 
intend  to  come.  And  I  think  your  Mr.  Dantree  has  courags 
—no,  that's  not  the  word — cheek  enough  for  anything." 

"  He  will  be  here  to-day,"  she  whis[)cred,  lifting  her  head , 
"  and  papa,  for  my  sake  don't  be  hard  on  him — don't  hurt  his 
feelings,  don't  insult  him  for  his  poverty  ! " 

He  put  her  from  him,  and  walked  away  witn  a  gesture  al- 
most of  anger. 

"  His  poverty  !  as  if  I  cared  for  //laf  I  The  baronets  of  Scars 
wood  have  been  poor  men,  often  enough  ;  but  they  were  always 
gentlemen.  I  don't  think  your  handsome  lover  with  the  tenoi 
voice  can  say  as  much.  But,  whatever  he  is — blackleg,  advent- 
urer, fortune-hunter — I  am  to  take  him,  it  seems,  to  give  him 
my  daughter,  and  heiress,  as  soon  as  it  pleases  his  sultanship  to 
cl^um  her.  If  not,  you'll  become  a  heroine,  won't  you,  Kathie, 
and  run  away  to  Gretna  Green  with  him  ?  Katherine,  if  by 
gome  freak  of  fortune  Scarswood  and  its  long  rent-roll  passed 
from  you  to-morrow,  and  you  stood  before  him  penniless  as  he 
is,  how  long  do  you  think  he  would  prove  true  to  all  the  U>ve 
rt>ws  of  last  night — in  the  conservatory,  was  it  ?  " 

"  For  all  the  years  of  his  life,  j  Apa,"  the  girl  cried,  her  large 
vyes  fiasMng.  "  You  don't  knoTT  him — you  judge  him  cxuelly 
wad  mJtindly.  He  loves  me  for  myself — as  I  do  him.  Papa, 
i  never  knew  you  to  be  so  unkind  before  in  ah  my  life." 

•*  That  will  do,  Kathie — I  have  promised  to  accept  him  when 
ke  comes — ^let  that  suffice.  I  confess  I  should  have  liked  a 
gentleman  bom  and  bred  for  a  son-ii  'aw,  but  that  weaknes* 
will  no  doubt  wear  away  with  time.  An,  I  see — *  lo  I  the  con 
qurring  hero  comes  ! '  Will  you  dare  trust  him  to  my  tendei 
oiercies^  my  dear,  or  do  you  wish  to  remain  and  do  battle  iati 
founr  knight?" 

For  Kr,  Gfttton  Dantree  was  rkiiijg  slowly  up  the  avenn^ 


i    . 


^ 


i 


\  t/  u 


^ti 


ASfCfNG  IN   MARRIAGS. 


TTic  «un  which  all  morning  had  beeii  titniggling  wilh  the  clcHid; 
?>urs<*  out  at  the  moment,  and  Nfr.  I)antrfe  apMr»-t-,chcd 
through  the  sunburst  as  through  a  glory.  Tht*  girl's  eyes  lit, 
her  whole  face  kindled  with  the  radiance  of  love  at  freventeeo. 
And  this  son  of  the  gods  was  hers.  She  turned  in  her  sfrift 
.mpulsive  feshion,  and  flung  her  anus  round  her  father's  ncci 
mce  more. 

♦'  Don't  be  unkind,  papa,  for  my  sake.  It  would  kill  me  if 
\  lost  him — ^just  that." 

**  Kill  you,"  he  laughed,  cynically.  "  Men  have  d'ed,  and 
worms  have  eaten  tnem,  but  not  for  love.  There,  go— -I  mia) 
be  an  ogre,  but  1*11  promise  udi  lu  devour  Mr.  Dantree  thif 
morning,  if  I  can  help  it.'' 

He  led  her  to  the  door,  held  it  open  for  her  t<y  pass  out 
She  gave  him  one  last  imploring  glance. 

"  For  my  sake,  papa,"  she  repeated,  and  fied. 

He  closed  the  door  and  went  back  to  his  seat  beside  the 
window.  The  last  trace  of  softness  died  out  of  his  face,  he 
sighed  heavily,  and  in  the  garish  sunshine  his  florid  face  looked 
haggard  and  worn. 

"  If  I  only  had  courage  to  face  the  worst,"  lie  thought — "  ij 
I  only  had  courage  to  tell  the  truth.  But  1  am  a  coward,  and  1 
cannot.  The  revelation  would  kill  her — to  lose  lover,  fortune, 
all  at  one  blow.  If  it  must  fall  mine  will  never  be  the  hand  to 
strike,  and  yet  it  might  be  greatest  mercy  after  all." 

The  door  was  flung  wide. 

"  Mr.  Dantree,"  announced  the  footman. 

Sir  John  arose  with  a  stern  ceremoniousness  that  might  have 
abashed  most  nien.  But  it  did  not  abash  Katherine's  lover. 
In  the  whole  course  of  his  checkered  career  no  man  had  evei 
seen  Mr.  Dantree  put  out  of  countenance.  He  came  forwai  d. 
hat  in  hand,  that  handsome  mask,  his  face,  wearing  a  polits 
finile. 

**  Good-morning,  Sir  John — I  hope  I  see  you  well  after  last 
ai|hfs  late  hours.  It  was  a  most  delightful  reunion.  And 
MiES  Katherine,  I  trust,  Is  well  also  after  the  fatigue  of  so  much 
lUncing  ?  " 

**  My  daughter  is  well  I " — very  stitF  and  frigid,  this  response. 
i<  \^"ii]  yQQ  take  a  seat,  Mr.  Dantree,  and  tell  me  to  what  I  owe 
ilie  honor  of  this  visit  ?  " 

Hr  paused.  The  tone,  the  look,  were  enough  to  chill  thf 
ardor  c^  ti^  w<innest  lover.  Mr.  Dantree  took  them,  and  th^ 
A3^^  9s  mattem  of  course.     He  laid   his  hat  on   the  fioor, 


Astcrf/G  IN  MASfitrAaK. 


<} 


With  the  clcHidi 
e  aj;Mr»'^ch<  d 
girl's  eyes  bC 
L-  at  freventeca 
d  in  hef  swift 
IX  fattier**  neck 

'ould  kill  me  I* 

have  d'ed,  and 
ire,  go— -I  Ilia.) 
r.  Dantree  thif 

er  t<y  pass  out 


seat  beside  the 
of  his  face,  he 
rid  face  looked 

e  thought—-"  iJ 

.  coward,  and  i 

lover,  fortune, 

be  the  hand  to 

Lll." 


hat  might  have 
therine's  lover, 
man  hud  eve; 
came  forwaid. 
laring  a  polite 

well  aftev  last 
eunion.  Arici 
;ue  of  so  much 

this  response, 
to  what  I  owe 

gh  to  chill  thf 
them,  and  th^ 
on   the  fioor, 


irew  ©ff  his  gloves,  ran  his  liuger.^  tri.rough  his   glossy  black 

r.urls,  and   met    Sir   John's  ir.ite  gaze  with    mirtinching   good 


hnaior. 


Sir    J( 


natter   of 


supreme   is^ 

poriance.  A'i  you  appear  in  haste,  J  will  net  detain  you  km| 
^-1  will  come  to  the  point  at  once.  Last  night  1  had  the 
tionor  of  proposing  for  your  daughter's  hand,  and  the  happinesa 
A  being  acce})ted."  / 

This  Wis  coming  to  the  point  at  once  with  a  vengeance. 
Sir  John  sat  gazing  at  him  blankly.  The  stupendous  magnifi- 
cence of  his  cheekinesii  compleiely  took  his  breath  away. 

"  It  may  be  presunjptuous  on  my  part,"  Mr.  Dantree 
coolly  went  on  ;  "but  our  affections  are  not  under  our  control. 
Love  knows  no  distinction  of  rank.  I  love  your  daughter, 
Sir  John,  and  have  the  great  happiness  of  knowing  my  love  is 
returned." 

Sir  John  Dangerlield  actually  burst  out  laughing.  Some- 
where in  the  old  mustache  there  lay  a  lurking  vein  of  humor, 
and  Mr.  Dantree' s  [)crf('ct  saig-froid  and  pat  little  speech 
tickled  it ;  and  the  laugh  took  Jvlr.  Dantree  more  aback  than 
any  words  in  the  English  language. 

"  Sir  I  "  he  began,  reddening. 

"1  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Dantrc-v- - 1  certainly  had  no  inten- 
tion of  laughing,  and  1  certainly  suppose  you  don't  see  any- 
thing io  laugh  at.  it  was  tliat  pretty  speech  of  yours — how 
glibly  you  say  your  lesson !  Long  practice,  now,  1  suppose 
has  made  you  perfect." 

"Sir  John  Dangerlield — if  you  nrjean  to  insult  me — " 
"Keep  quiet,  Mr.  Dantree — you're  not  in  a  passion, 
though  yo.i  feign  one  very  v/elL  You  may  be  an  actor  by 
profession,  for  what  I  know,  but  I'd  rather  we  dropped 
aadodrama  and  kept  to  humdrum  common-sense.  Reserve 
fill  you  flowery  periods  al)out  love  overleaping  the  barriers 
of  rank — Katherine  is  not  listening.  Am  1  to  understand  you 
»re  here  to  demand  my  daughter's  hand  in  niarriage  ?  " 

Mr,  Dantree  bowed. 

-'You  are  to  understand  that,  Sir  John.  I  possess  Misfi 
Uangerfield's  heart  1  have  come  here  this  morning,  with  hes 
r.on.sent,  to  ask  you  for  her  hand." 

"  And  my  daughter  has  known  you— three,  or  four  weeks— 
rfhich  is  it  ?     And   you  are  good  enough  to  acknowledge  tt 
nv^y  be  a  Httle  presumpttiour. !     Mr.  Dantree,  what  are  you  I 
K»U,eririe  is  seventeen,  ar<d  in  love  with  you  ;  I  '?':3  sixty-ftv«, 


I 


i 


^i 


i  I 


I  ; 


I       ft      1  ^1    i 


i     I 


■m)  n§i  in  love  ;  jrou  possess  a  handsome  face  and  a  very  fine 

roice — may  I  ask  what  additional  virtues  and  claims  you  can 
pat  forth  for  my  favor?  Dark  eyes  and  melodious  tenors  ar* 
ycry  good  and  pleasant  things  in  their  way,  but  I  am  an  un- 
romantic  old  soldier,  and  I  should  like  you  to  show  some  mof  t 
■nbetantial  reasons  why  I  am  to  give  yon  my  daughter  for  life* 
**  If  by  substantial  reasons  you  mean  fame  or  fortune,  Sii 

ifohn,  I  possess  neither.  1  own  it — 1  am  poor.  I  am  a 
oumalist.  By  my  pen  I  earn  my  bread,  and  I  have  yet  t^ 
earn  there  is  any  disgrace  in  honest  poverty." 

"  There  are  many  things  you  have  yet  to  leam,  I  think,  Mr. 
Dantree,  but  easy  assurance  and  self-conceit  are  not  among 
them.  You  are  poor,  no  doubt — of  the  honesty  of  that  poverty 
I  have  no  means  of  judging.  At  present  I  have  but  your 
word  for  it.  Would  you  like  to  know  what  I  think  of  you,  Mr. 
Dantree — in  plain  language  ?" 

"  If  you  please.  Sir  John,  and  it  will  be  plain,  I  have  no 
doubt." 

"  Then,  sir,  you  are,  I  believe,  simply  and  solely  an  advent 
orer — a  fortune-hunter.  Be  good  enough  to  hear  me  out.  1 
am  not  likely  to  repeat  this  conversation  for  some  time,  and  il 
ts  much  better  we  should  understand  each  other  at  once. 
There  is  but  one  thing  I  would  rather  not  see  my  daughtei 
than  your  wife,  and  that  is — dead  !  " 

"  Thank  you.  Sir  John — you  are  almost  more  complimentar) 
than  I  had  hoped.  I  am  to  understand,  then,"  he  said  thij 
with  perfect  coolness,  "  that  you  refuse  your  consent.  In  that 
case  I  have  only  to  bid  you  good-day  and  go." 

Sir  John  glanced  at  him  in  impotent  rismg  wrath.  What  ii 
cost  him  to  prestrve  even  a  show  of  self-control  the  fiery  qW 
soldier  alone  knew. 

"You  do  well,"  he  cried,  his  blue  eyes  afire,  "to  taunt  in! 
with  my  impotence.  If  I  were  a  wiser  man  and  a  le?-: 
indulgent  father,  by  heavens  !  you  should  go,  and  that  quickly  \ 
fiat  I  have  never  refused  Katherine  anything  yet,  and  I  au- 
not  going  to  begin  now.  She  has  set  her  foolish,  child's  heart 
on  you,  sir,  with  your  cursed  womanish  beauty  and  Italia r 
iong-singing,  and  she  shall  not  be  thwarted — by  me.  She  shall 
marry  you  if  she  wishes  it — she  shall  never  say /came  between 
her  and  the  dearest  desire  of  her  heart.  Take  her,  (Jsiitor 
Ihuitree,"  he  arose,  "  and  may  an  old  man's  curse  blight  y\.:\y 
V  «Ter  you  make  her  repent  it ! " 

|Mm|»  soBMwbece  in  his  hard  siiatotn.f  Ci«»toii  Dantree 


1;;,;! 


,nd  a  very  fbic 

lainis  you  can 
ous  tenors  ar« 
:  I  am  an  un- 
ow  some  mof  i 
ghter  for  life ' 
)T  fortune,  Su 
x)i.  I  am  a 
I  have  yet  t^ 

1,  I  think,  Mr. 
re  not  among 
of  that  poverty 
lave  but  yout 
ik  of  you,  Mr. 

in,  I  have  no 

eiy  an  advent 
ar  me  out.  1 
ae  time,  and  it 
ther  at  once, 
e  my  daughtei 

omplimentar) 
he  said  thij 
sent.     In  tha» 

ath.     What  il 
)1  the  fiery  oW 

to  taunt  iftJ. 
in  aixd  a  \en 
that  quickly  \ 
yet,  and  1  aw 
child's  heart 
and  Italiar 
le.  She  shall 
:ame  between 
e  her,  (rSiJtor 
se  blight  yt.r. 

Dan  tree 


rif£  SECOND    WAKNllfG.  5} 

had  SB  orsan  that  did  duty  as  a  heart,  it  snmic  nim  mmt.  Htt 
h^ld  out  his  hand  to  the  passionate  old  soldier. 

"  So  help  me  Heaven  I  she  never  shall.  As  1  deal  by  hei 
may  I  be  dealt  with  I " 

He  spoke  the  words  that  sealed  his  condemnation.  In  ttfcf 
troubled  after-days,  it  was  only  the   retributian  he  isTskri 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE   SECOND  WARNIK". 


jEFORE  the  expiration  of  a  week,  it  was  known  to  aD 
Castleford — to  all  the  county  families  of  theneigbor 
hood — that  Miss  Katherine  Daiigerfield,  of  Scarswood 
Park,  was  engaged  to  Mr.  Gastoi/  Dantree,  of — nobody 
knew  where. 

Had  any  other  baronet* s  daughter  so  far  stooped  to  disgrace 
their  code  and  their  ordei,  the  county  families  would  have  stood 
paralyzed  at  the  desecration.  Being  Miss  Dangerfield,  nobody 
even  wondered.  It  was  only  of  a  piece  with  all  the  rest.  What 
could  you  expect  of  a  young  person — the  term  of  lady  would 
have  been  a  misnomer — of  a  young  person  with  some  of  the 
best  blood  in  Sussex  in  her  veins,  who  persisted  in  scampering 
over  the  downs  and  the  coast  for  miles  without  a  groom  \ — 
who  treated  her  venerable  father  as  though  he  were  a  chilii 
of  twelve,  who  wore  her  hair  streaming  down  her  back  at  ths 
mature  age  of  seventeen,  who  called  every  Goody  and  Gaffer 
in  the  parish  by  their  christian  name,  who  was  quite  capa- 
l)le  of  speaking  to  anybody  without  an  introduction,  who  knew 
•very  game  that  could  be  played  on  the  cards,  and  who  xalked 
dang  ?  What  could  you  expect  of  a  de  moralized  young  wonum 
Jike  this  ?  The  Dangerfield  lineage  was  unexceptionable — 
there  must  be  a  cross  somewhere,  a  bar  sinister  on  the  mother's 
iide ;  it  was  a  wild  impossibility  the  old  blood  could  degenerate 
in  this  way. 

Who  was  Mr.  (xaston  Dantree  ?  The  county  families  asked 
tiiia  question  with  intense  curiosity  now,  and  fou:id  the  answer 
lH  too  nei^e.     Mr.  Dantree  himself  ro^nnnded  to  it  with  thf^ 


m' 


TUh   SECOii'D    WAUHlNxi, 


J 


i   ;i 


perfect,  high-bred  self-possessiuu  which  cliaracteiized  him  *,  qa^ 
everybody  had  to  take  his  own  account,  or  go  )<  .k  frrr  proof 

"1  am  an  American — a  Soulhc.i  uer,  as  you  knci^  '  Mr.  I>:int]e« 
hAd  said ;  "  nj  native  State  is  JiOuif.!ana.     1  am  that  faiaood 
historical   ^^'^rsonage,    '  the  son   of  j)0(?i   but   horxst  parents, 
ttow  and  for  many  years  dead.     liy  profession  I  am  a  journaliit  r 

I  am  connected  v;ith  the  New  Orleans  P .     An  unejcperte* 

windfall,  in  die  .wiy  of  a  small  legacy,  enaljled  me,  six  months 
Ago,  to  realize  a  long-cherished  dream  of  mine  and  vi.'iit  England. 
My  leave  of  absence  ex})ires  in  two  months,  when  1  must 
either  return  to  New  Orleans  or — " 

Here  Mr.  Dantree  ""vas  wont  to  break  .  ^ff  if  Miss  Dangerfield 
were  present,  with  a  profound  sigh  and  a  glance  that  spoke 
k'xicons. 

Squire  Talbot,  of  Morecamhe,  with  whom  Mr.  Dantree  had 
comedown  to  London,  and  with  whom  he  was  still  staying, 
when  brought  upon  the  stand  in  turn  and  cross  examined,  could 
throw  very  little  more  light  on  his  giu.'St's  antecedents. 

**  Deuce<^  sorry,  no.v,  Sir  John,  \  ever  did  bring  the  fellow 
down,"  young  Mr.  Talbot  said,  the  lirsi  time  he  met  ihr  biir- 
onet,  pulling  his  lawny  mustache  with  glooiny  fenK'-.iiy  ;  '  bal 
how  the  deuce  could  I  tell  Miss  Danj^.erficld  would  go  and  -  no 
I  mean  Dantree,  be  hanged  to  him  ! — would  go  uuj  make  lovf 
to  Miss  Dangerfield  ?  I  put  it  to  yourself— now  c.onld  1,  Si« 
John  ?  I'm  deuced  sorry,  and  all  that,  but  I  don't  know  a  biess«;:'.»' 
thing  about  him  except  tiiat  *  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow,'  as  the  sonj^ 
says,  tells  a  capital  s-iory,  suigs  like  an  American  Sims  Reeves, 
and  can  punish  more  chain])agne  of  a  night  and  rise  no/^e  the 
worse  for  it  next  day  than  any  otlvjr  fellow  " — i'^quire  T-iIbjet 
pronounced  it  '*  feller" — "  I  ever  knew.  I  met  him  fiist  zli  a 
dinner  at  the  GuarJs'  (Jlub,  then  at  a  Sunday  l.jreaki'ast  at 
L<Hd  Leaharn's- -invited  to  both  these  places,  you  r.ndei  stand, 
U?  sing.  He  knew  lols  of  nevrsp  per  uien — wule  rtimsien 
himself  for  the  s;)ortinjr  iournals,  and  when  I  a.:ked  him--  con 
found  it  I— to  rua  down  wiih  me  to  my  place  in  Sussex,  h? 
consented  at  once_  And  I  am  deuced  sorry,  Sir  John,"  reuer- 
ftted  Squire  Taloot,  going  ov  :r  the  same  giov.m.^  Again  ;  '*  aiid 
J  hope,  whatever  happens,  you  know,  you'll  not  blamt  iae." 

"  1  blari!C  noiKKly,""  liicoid  bav  )net  answered,  wearily  ;  **  these 
things  are  to  oe.  \  supposfc-  I  shall  write  to  New  Orlcj^ns  and 
make  irK^uincs  r:>nv t^'Trin^'  ,=ie  yo^mg  man  ;  !  can  do  no  morf 
iC^therms  is  nifa!ii.?.te<^  -prs;y  Heaven  hej  eye*?  i.-iay  R<f!4  h-^ 
opened  ill  my  day  \ " 


3         -/     .        * 


•;  1,*-^. 


THE   SACOi\'D    iVAAA'/JVG. 


y/ 


\\ze6  him  *,  aa^ 

.  k  for  proof 
[■"'  Mr.  Diotic^ 
m  that  faiaooji 
ioncst  parents, 
Lin  a  jourrialiit  r 
Aii  uuexper.te^ 
ne,  six  months 
d  viiiit  England 
,  when  1  must 

[iss  Dangerfield 
nee   that  spoke 

r.  Dantrec  had 

IS  still  staying, 
xamirieci,  cnuld 
[•dents. 

iiing   the  fellow 

c  met  the   b^r- 

ft'i'ijciiv  ;    '  bat 

lid  go  and  -  no, 

aiuj  make  lovf 

w  <:o;!ld  1,  Sir 

vHow  a  bless«<', 

,v,'  n:.  ihe  &on(5 

Shns  Rcevc£, 

rise  none  the 

Squire  Talb'Jt 

him  hi  St  a'i  a 

l>reaki'a:>.t  at 

>u  ?indei  stand, 

«v].;!.e  Mimsien 

ed  hin^-con 

in  Susrex,  h? 

John,"  reiier- 

xgain  ;   '-^  and 

blame  5U«." 

earily  ;  **  these 

w  Orleans  and 

,n  <5v)  no  loorf 


Mra.  Vavn«jor  was  perhap.i  ihe  only  one  whc  heard  with  un 
AJioyed  Ratisfaction  of  Katlierine's  siiddt-n  ^'nga^t  tnent. 

"\Vhit  did  ]  lt!l  y(ni,  Sir  John?"  s^it-  sai'i,  triiuni  hantJy 
i ''What  do  you  tr.mk  of  my  powers  of  diviiialion  now?  It't 
,  ratlitr  a  nies.iliiAiicc,  isn't  it  ? — for  her  father's  daiighter,  ratlMs/ 
i  Miad  ;4ilisiir  altogether.  V-ut,  dear  child — she  is  it;  impuisivitj 
ind  xo  self-reliant,  and  so  h^ipt-lcssly  obsti— no,  that's  net  i 
vlcasant  w«)rd-  so  resolute  and  firm,  let  us  say,  thiat  reni/in 
jtrance  is  quite  thrown  away  upon  her.  Let  us  jrity  hci,  Si». 
John,  rather  than  blame  ;  she  ejmes  by  all  those  admirajU 
Iraits  of  character  hont.'slly  enough— inherited  from  her  mother. 
And  when  is  the  wedd.ing  to  take  place  ?  " 

She  threw  her  head  back  ag:iinst  the  purple-velvet  cushions 
of  her  chair,  and  looked  at  the  mood j^  baronet  ^nth  malicioufcly 
sparkling  black  eyes. 

"  1  don't  ask  merely  from  idle  curiosity,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  went 
jn,  as  the  badgered  l)aronf't's  answer  was  a  sort  of  groan  ;  *'  1 
inquire  because  tlie  knowU'd2<^'  influences  my  own  movements. 
One  week  before  the  day  lixed  for  tlie  wedding,  I  receive  from 
you,  my  kind  benefactor,  that  che<;k  for  ten  thousand  pounds — 
a  very  respectable  haul,  by  the  way  and  i  shake  the  duct  of 
Scarswood  off  my  feet  forever.  My  reception  by  both  host  and 
hoiitess  was,  I  must  say,  of  the  least  cordial,  and  1  am  made  to 
feel  ev-viy  hour  that  I  am  a  most  unwelcome  interloper.  Still, 
I  bear  no  malice,  and  not  having  any  oi  your  sdn^-azure  in 
my  veins,  i\\\  sensitive  feelings  are  not  wounded.  Pvrhaps  a 
do;ten  years  spent  at  Baden  and  Homburg  does  blunt  ihe  finej 
edge  of  one's  nerves.  I  trust  the  wedding  day  will  not  conio 
rop.nd  too  spee<lily--T  really  like  my  (jiiart^.rs  here.  My  room 
connnandsa  sunny  southern  prospect,  your  wines  are  unexcepr- 
douaLle,  and  your  cook  for  an  English  cook,  a  treasure.  Don  S 
fix  the  happy  day  too  near.  Sir  John.  Dearest  Katherine  is  st 
impetuous  that  she  would  be  married  next  week,  1  dare  s;r/, 
if  she  could." 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  it  were  next  week,  so  that  T  might  b; 
rirl  if  you  I "  Sir  John  broke  out.  "  You  bring  misfortune  with 
jr«a  wherever  you  go  I  Mrs.  Harman,  you  shall  leave  dii^ 
louse  I  You  sit  here  with  that  mocking  smile  on  your  face, 
exultirg  in  your  power  until  it  <lrives  me  half  mad  to  look  at 
you.  Take  the  enormous  bribe  you  demand — I  have  no  right 
to  give  it  you,  1  know — and  go  at  once.  What  object  can  you 
0«it  by  T'^^maining  here  ? '" 

**  K    "  »^h.^t  »5  *n  unkind  '^^ir-ct.'rw^      Whit  do  F  ?r?m  ?     H'r 


•  ff 


:  4 


:■ 


i 


i  ! 


1 1 


1"  'I 


r^ift  3j':coNn  WAitttrifG, 


pLrasu'Y  of  your  society,  and  that  of  Miss  I iar.gerfield,  to  b# 
mre  ;  the  pleasure  of  being  hand  and  ({love  with  the  gentry  A 
this  neighborhood,  who,  like  yourself,  .-ithf.r  give  ine  the  cold 
■houlder,  by  the  Way.  I  wonder  how  it  is  ? — none  of  their 
ever  saw  me  at  Iloinburg  that  I  know  of.  1  suj^jK^se  thebraik- 
of  adventuress  is  stamped  on  ujy  face.  No,  Sir  John  ;  jmf> 
one  hour,  not  one  second  sooner  than  I  say,  shall  I  quit  Scai» 
wood  Park.  If  the  wedding  is  hxed  for  next  week,  then  I  lean 
this;  if  for  tliis  day  ten  yens,  then  I  remain  that  long.  I 
dare  say  I  should  find  life  slow,  and  the  character  of  a  reaped 
able  British  matron  of  the  upper  classes  a  dismal  life ;  but  itili 
I  would  do  it." 

He  stopped  in  his  walk  and  looked  at  her.  The  bold  tyt% 
met  his  unflinchingly. 

"Well,  Sir  John?" 

"  Harriet  Harman,  you  have  waone  sinister  design  in  all  this 
What  have  you  to  do  with  Kathcrine's  wedding  day  ?  What 
has  the  child  done  to  you  that  you  should  hate  her  ?  What 
have  I  ever  done  that  ^ou  sliould  torment  me  thus  ?  Is  it  thai 
at  ihe  last  hour  you  mean  to  break  your  promise  and  tell  \ 
Great  Heaven  I     Harriet,  is  that  what  you  mean  ?  " 

Her  steady  color  faded  Ir^x  a  moment ;  her  own,  v/ith  all  her 
boldness,  shifted  away  from  the  jiaze  of  the  old  man's  horror- 
struck  eyes. 

"What  I  mean  is  my  own  affair,"  she  said,  sullenly  ;  "  atid 
I  do  hate  Katherine  for  her  inothe/  .  sake,  and  her  own.  You 
needn't  ask  me  any  questions  about  it.  T  mean  to  tell  you  all 
one  day — liut  not  this.  I  v;ant  nu^^^ey,  Sir  John,  and  that 
promised  check,  of  course,  my  poor  littl*'  purse  replenished 
See  how  empty  it  is  ! — and  all  my  worldy  wealth  is  here." 

She  laugh'rd  as  she  held  it  up,  all  her  old  audacious  manne^ 
b^k.  Tf,  i  or  three  shillings  jingled  in  tl>-  meshtfs  as  she  held 
fe  out 

**  I  want  to  replenish  my  wardrobe ;  I  want  to  pay  sonic 
bills;  I  want — oh  1  millions  of  things  1  Fill  me  out  a  check  like 
Ihc  piiiKelj'  old  soldier  you  are,  and  I  shall  get  through  the 
day  shopping  in  Castleford  ;  I  will  aiuuse  myself  spending 
money,  while  Katherine  amuses  herself  listening  to  Mr.  Dan- 
tree's  fluent  love-making.  He's  rather  a  clever  little  fellow, 
tfiat  »^n-in-law-elect  of  yours,  my  dear  baronet,  and  I  don't 
fchink  h«  has  given  us  his  whole  autobiography  quite  as  it  is 
known  in  N<;r  Orleans.  I  don't  say  there  was  anything  par 
ri^mUrly  clever  in  his  wooing  the  hejrcbs  of  Scarswood,  b^cansf 


THR   SECOND    WAMNING, 


rgerfieldf  to  b# 
th  th«  gentry  4 
ve  ine  the  cold 
—none  of  their 
[>l>o8e  the  braiW 
Sir  John  ;  vm^ 
all  I  quit  .Scax» 
ek,  then  I  lean 
1  that  long.  1 
ter  of  a  rcRpect 
il  hfe ;  but  f tiU 

The  bold  ^yen 


;9ign  in  all  this 
ig  day?  What 
ite  her  ?  Whai 
hus  ?  Is  it  thai 
oniise  anj  tell  \ 
an?" 

wn,  with  all  her 
\  man's  horror- 

sullenly  ;  "  atid 
her  own.  You 
to  tell  you  all 

ohn,  and  tha< 
se  replenished 

1  is  here." 

acious  maiinei 

itss  as  she  heW 

to  pay  sonic 
ut  a  check  like 
et  through  the 
yself  spending 
I  to  Mr.  Dan- 
vc  little  fellow, 
t,  and  I  don't 
/  quite  as  it  ii 

anything  par 
(wood,  becau8« 


uny  well-looking  young  man,  with  a  ready  tongue  and  an  cL 
gani  address,  could  have  done  thaty  and  my  own  impression  i> 
t}iat  Miss  Dangerfield,  like  Desdemona,  met  him  more  thar 
half  way.  I'm  ready  to  wager  the  luiptials  will  be  consu;u 
mated  within  the  next  three  monthr.  Now,  that  check,  de* 
Sir  John— and  do  be  hberal  1 " 

She  rose  up,  and  Sir  John,  with  the  look  of  a  hunted  aAima> 
At  bay,  ^led  out  a  check  for  a  hrndreii  it>ottn<i;a  and  handed  't 

^  her. 

"*  A  sop  to  Cerberus,"  tha  widow  said,  gayly  ;  "  do  you  know 
Sir  John,  I  haven't  had  so  much  money  at  once  for  the  past  fiv** 
years  I  How  fortunate  for  n?e  that  I  met  Colonel  Dangerfield 
and  lady  that  eventful  day  fifteen  years  ago  ir«  iKe  hospital  ol 
St  I^azare  I  And  what  a  c<:)mfortable  thii.g  to  a  poor  littk 
widow  a  great  man's  secret  is  I  Thank  yo<i,  Sir  John ;  my 
toilettes  will  do  Scarswood  credit  during  tl»e  lemainder  of  my 
sUy." 

And  Mrs.  Vavasor  kept  her  word  fne  faded  silks  and 
shabby  laces,  the  Palais-Koyal  diamond)  and  soiled  gloves  were 
consigned  to  the  lowest  depths  <A  oblivion  and  the  widow's 
trunks.  And  silks  of  rainbow  hneB,  stiff  enough  in  their  rustling 
richness  to  stand  alone  ;  cobweb  laces  of  marvellous  price, 
with  the  glimmer  of  real  jewels,  made  the  little  woman  gorgeous. 
If  she  painted,  she  was  past  mistress  of  the  art ;  and  none  bu\ 
a  very  expert  female  eye  coulu  Viave  detected  the  liquid  rouge 
that  made  her  bloom  so  brigntly,  or  that  the  sparkling  radiance 
of  her  bright  black  eyes  was  tne  ghastly  brilliance  of  belladonna. 
Sir  John's  one  hundred  pounds  went  a  very  Httle  way  in  his 
visitor's  magnificent  toilet,  and  that  first  "  sop  to  Cerberus  "  hat) 
to  be  very  speedily  and  very  often  renewed.  In  her  own  way, 
she  spent  her  time  very  pleasantly-  -tossing  over  purchases  ii 
tne  Castlefofd  shops,  maJking  agreeable  tlying  trips  to  London 
and  back,  driving  about  in  a  littl^^  basket-carriag"  and  bidinjj 
tier  time. 

"All  things  are  possil>le  to  the  ujan  Ahc-  knows  how  to  wait, 
By  dear  Mr.  Dangerfield,"  she  said  one  day,  to  the  baronet' i 
moody  nephew.  **  1  suppose  the  saiije  rule  a[)plies  to  women. 
Don't  be  impatient  ;  your  time  and  ruine  v>.  very  near  now.  I 
have  waited  for  nearly  eighteen  years,  and  here  you  are  grum 
bling,  ingrate,  at  being  obliged  to  stand  in  the  background  fc 
that  many  weeks  I  How  is  it  that  we  n<-vcr  see  you  at  Scarj 
wood  now  ?" 

She  r>ir.kcd  up  the  Castlf'ford  aitornc-t  or  'Orc  of  bcr  Aiw 


•^^ 


I    • 


1        : 


I 


i 


:  ,  I 


7^ 


TUB  SECOND   WAMNIHG, 


the  night  of  the  birthday  party,  Mr.  Peter  DaageiAtU 
kad  not  thown  his  sallow  face,  colorlesi  eyes  and  mnstacht 
faigide  the  great  house. 

**1  don't  think  you  need  a&k  that  queition— /M^  of  all 
people,"  the  young  man  answered,  sulkily.  "What  the  deuce 
should  I  do  at  Scarswood,  looking  al  those  two  billing  and  coo 
ioff  ?  They  say  marriages  are  made  in  Heaven — I  wonder  il 
?ltu  onion  of  a  fool  and  a  knave  was  ever  made  in  the  ctltitiii^ 
legioni  ?     In  the  infernal,  I  should  say  myself." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Dangerfield,  aren't  you  a  little  iercrc?  A 
0DOI  and  a  knave  1  Would  Katherine  have  been  a  ImI,  I 
vmuler,  if  she  had  accepted  you  the  other  night } 


O.  My  Kathb,  vIm  m 


Don't  be  anreasonable,  Mr.  Dangerfitld.  You  are  aa  poer  u 
Mr.  Dantree,  and — if  you  will  pardon  my  telling  plain  truth— 
not  half  a  quarter  so  good-looking.  And  then,  she  is  not  mar- 
ried to  him  yet." 

"  No,  but  she  soon  will  be.  It  is  rumored  in  the  town  that 
the  wedding  is  fixed  for  early  January.  It's  of  no  use  your 
talking  and  chaffing  a  fellow,  Mrs.  Vavasor ;  the  wedding  day 
will  tue  place  as  sure  as  we  sit  here,  and  the  next  thing,  there 
will  be  an  heir  to  Scarswood.  In  the  poetic  language  of  the 
Orientals,  your  talk  of  the  other  night  is  all  '  bosh.'  It  ia  ot' 
terly  impossible  that  Scaiswood  should  ever  fall  to  me." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed  in  hei  agreeable  way. 

"  Impossible  is  a  very  big  word,  friend  Peter — too  big  for  my 
vocabulary.  See  here  !  Will  you  give  me  your  written  prom 
i4e  that  on  the  day  Scarswood  and  ^s  long  rent-roll  becomes 
fours  yofi  will  pay  me  down  ten  thousand  pounds  ?  It's  a  tol- 
erable price,  but  not  too  much,  considering  the  lenrice  I  will 
Jo  you." 

He  looked  at  her  darkly,  and  in  doubt. 

*♦  Mrs.  Vavasor,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  if  that  be  your  name — astf 
I  don't  believe  it  is — I'm  not  going  to  c  mmit  myself  to  you, 
or  anybody,  in  the  dark.  I  am  a  lawyer,  and  won't  break  the 
law.  You're  a  very  clever  little  woman — so  clever  that  for  the 
reft  of  my  life  I  mean  to  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
you.  If  you  had  a  spite  at  anybody,  I  don't  suppose  yuo 
▼onld  stick  at  trifles  to  gratify  it.  But  I'm  not  going  to  become 
<<'-ces80iy  to  you  before  the  fact  to  any  little  plot  of  yours.    iJ 


fi ! 


ter  DangeffttU 
and  mostachf 

)I1— /My   of   aU 

What  the  detm 

billing  and  C€k> 

n — I   wonder  il 

in  the  cttaUk' 

tie  iercre?  A 
been  a  ImI,  1 
f 


are  aa  potraj 

ig  plain  truth- 
she  is  not  mar- 

D  the  town  that 
if  no  use  your 
le  wedding  day 
?xt  thing,  there 
inguage  of  the 
K>sh.'  It  ii  at- 
to  me. 


» 


too  big  for  my 
written  prom 
t-roll  becomes 
Is?  Tfsatol- 
i  sefYice  I  will 


ur  name — asl 
myself  to  yoo, 
Dn't  break  the 
er  that  for  the 
;r  to  do  with 

suppose  yuQ 
to  become 

of  yonra.    1) 


rfiU  SSCOJ/D    WARNWG,  ^| 

Scanwood  e\er  comes  to  nie,  and  1  repeat,  it  is  impossible  il 
ever  should,  it  shall  be  by  fair  means,  not — fouL" 

Mrs.  Vavasor  lay  back  aiiiuii{^  the  cushions  and  laughed  till 
the  echoes  rang.  They  were  in  the  streets  of  Castleford,  and 
passing  prdestnans  looked  up  and  smiled  from  very  sympathy 
irith  that  rrerry  peal. 

<  lie  thinks  I  am  going  to  commit  a  murder  I  I  really  be- 
fieve  he  does  1  No — no  t  Mr.  Dangeriield,  I'm  not  a  lawyei, 
but  1  respect  the  majesty  of  the  law  quite  as  greatly  as  you  do. 
I've  done  a  great  many  queer  things  in  my  life,  I  don't  mind 
owning,  but  I  never  committed  a  murder,  and  I  never  mean 
to,  even  to  gratify  spite.  Come !  you're  a  coward,  mtn  ami^ 
even  though  you  are  a  DangerfieM  ;  but  if  you  promise  to  per- 
petrate no  deed  of  darkness  on  the  way,  wUl  you  give  me  that 
ten  tliousand  when  you  are  lord  of  the  manor.  Yes  or  no  ? 
just  as  you  please.     Sir  John  will,  if  you  won't" 

"  I  wish  I  understood — " 

<*  Wait  I  wait  1  wait !  You  shall  understand  t  we  are  draw- 
ing near  the  HalL     Is  it  a  promise  ?  " 

**  It  will  be  a  fool's  promise,  given  in  the  dark — but  yei,  if 
you  will  have  it." 

Mrs.  Vavasor's  «yes  sparkled  with  a  light  this  time  not  de- 
rived from  belladonna. 

"  You  will  give  me  that  promise  in  writing  ?  " 

"  In  anything ;  it  is  easy  enough  to  give  a  promise  we  never 
expect  to  be  called  upon  to  fulfil.  If  through  you  Scarswood 
Park  becomes  mine,  I  will  willingly  pay  you  the  sum  you  ask." 

"  Very  well,  then — it  is  a  compact  between  us.  You  fetch 
the  document  in  writing  the  next  time  you  visit  us,  and  let  that 
visit  be  fioon.  You  can  surely  bear  the  sight  of  our  lover^ 
raptures  with  the  secret  knowledge  that  they  will  never  end  in 
wedlock." 

"  If  I  thought  that,"  between  his  set  teeth. 

"  You  may  think  it.  I  know  that  of  Katherine  Dangerfield 
which  will  effectually  prevent  Gaston  Dantree  from  marrying 
her.  Ah  1  Speak  of  his  Satanic  Majesty  and  he  appears.  Be- 
hold Katherine  Dangerfield  and  the  handsome  lover  her  money 
has  bought  1 " 

**"'  -y  came  dashing  out  from  under  the  arched  entrance 
gates,  both  superbly  mounted,  for  Mr.  Dantree  had  the  run  of 
the  Morecambe  stables.  Remarkably  handsome  at  all  timetr 
Mr.  Dantree  invariably  looked  his  best  on  horseback,  and  n;  . ;;. 
Dangerfield,  in  her  tight-fitting  habit,  her  tall  hat  with  its  sw«  r  y. 


t       L'l 


t 

i 

I,. 

1 

t 

1       : 
i      i 

73 


r/f£   SECOND    WARMING. 


ing  purpiv*  pliunes,  and  wearing,  oh,  such  an  infirdtel)  hapfH 
face,  waS;  if  not  handsome,  at  lea^t  dashing  and  bright  enon^i 
for  the  goddess  Diana  herself. 

"  Look,"  Mr?..  Vavasor  said,  maliciously ;  **  amd  they  taj 
perfect  bliss  is  not  for  this  lower  world.  Let  those  who  say  s« 
come  and  look  at  Katlierine  Dangerfield  and  that  beautifit' 
creature,  Gaston  Dantree — the  very  handsomest  man  I  eve 
•aw,  I  believe,  and  1  hm>e  seen  some  handsome  men  in  m; 
iifetime.  Real  Oriental  eyes,  Mr.  Dangf'rfield — long,  black 
lustrous.     And  he  bows  with  the  grace  of  a  prince  of  the  blood' 

The  equestrians  swept  by.  Mr.  Dantree  doffed  his  hat,  anc 
bowed  low  to  the  smiling  little  lady  in  the  basket  car 
riage.  Miss  Dangerfield' s  salute  was  of  the  haughtiest.  Somf 
feminine  instinct  told  her  her  father's  guest  was  her  enemy, 
despite  her  sugar)-  speeches,  her  endearing  epithets,  her  cease- 
ess  smiles. 

"  1  hate  that  woman,  papa  I "  Katherine  more  than  once 
burst  out  to  her  father.  "  I  hate  people  who  go  through  lift 
continually  smirking.  If  you  told  her  black  was  white,  she 
would  say,  *  So  it  is,  my  sweetest  pet,'  and  look  as  if  she  be- 
lieved it — little  hypocrite  !  1  detest  her,  and  she  detests  me 
and  she  makes  you  miserable — oh,  I  can  see  it  I  now  what  1 
want  to  know  is,  what's  she  doing  here  ?  " 

And  Katherine  stood  before  her  father,  and  looked  for  an 
wiswer,  with  her  bright,  clear  eyes  fixed  full  upon  him.  He 
had  shifted  under  the  gaze  of  those  frank  eyes,  with  a  sort  ol 
suppress'^^d  groan. 

"  I  wish  you  would  try  and  treat  her  a  little  more  civilly  vhan 
you  do,  Kathie,"  he  answei  ed,  avoiding  his  daughter's  searching 
glance  ;  "you  were  perfectly  rude  to  her  last  night.  U  is  not 
Uke  you,  Kathie,  to  be  discourteous  to  the  guest  that  eats  of 
your  bread  and  salt." 

"  And  it  is  very  like  her  to  play  eavesdropper.  I  caught  hc! 
behind  a  tall  orange  tree  listening  to  eveiy  word  Gaston  and  I 
were  saying.  I  merely  told  her  \  would  repeat  our  conversa 
tion  any  night  for  her  benefit  if  she  was  so  determined  to  heai 
it  as  to  play  the  spy.  She  is  an  odious  little  wretch,  papa,  ii 
she  is  your  friend,  and  I  don't  believe  she  is.  She  paints  and 
she  tells  polite  lies  every  hour  of  the  day,  and  she  hates  me 
with  the  whole  strength  of  her  venomous  little  soul.  And  she 
kxiks  at  you  and  speaks  to  you  in  a  way  1  don  t  understand — 
M  though  she  had  you  in  her  [^ower.  Papa,  1  warn  you  I 
Vou'U  come  to  grief  if  you  keep  any  eecrets  from  me." 


I 


Ttif     S  f  L  O.^fD     'A^A  ffNfJ^C. 


7% 


liriitd)  hapm 
>right  enotifi 

nd  they  laj 
le  who  saiy  m 
:hat  beautife^ 
:  man  I  eve 
le  men  in  mj 
-long,  black 
of  the  blood' 
d  his  hat,  anc 
basket  car 
titiest.  Some 
3  her  enemy, 
:ts,  her  cease 

re  than  once 

0  through  lift 
vas  white,  she 

as  if  she  be 

le  detests  me 

1  now  what  \ 

looked  for  an 
on  him.  He 
with  a  sort  ol 

re  civilly  vhar 
er's  searching 
ht.  U  is  not 
it  that  eats  of 

I  caught  hci 
Gaston  and  I 
our  conversa 
mined  to  heai 
retch,  papa,  ii 
he  paints  and 
she  hates  me 
)ul.  And  she 
understand — 
1  warn  you  I 

1  me" 


**  KLatherine,  for  \n\ys  sake,  go  and  leave  me  alone  !  I  in 
Aer  power  I  What  abominable  nonsense  you  talk.  Go  1  walk, 
drive,  sing,  amuse  yourself  with  your  new  toy— the  singing  man 
— anything,  only  leave  me  to  read  my  Times  in  peace.  I  begin 
to  believe  Victor  Hugo's  words,  *  Men  are  women's  play- 
things, and  women  are  the  dev — '  " 

"  That  will  do,  papa,"  interrui>tcd  Katherine,  walking 
gway  in  offended  dignity.  '*You  can  Bay  things  quite 
bitter  enough  yourself,  without  quoting  that  cynical  French' 
man.  Mrs.  Vanasor  may  be  Satan^s  plaything,  for  what  1 
know.  Of  that  you  are  naturally  the  best  judge.  Hoi* 
long  is  she  to  force  herself  upon  us  in  this  house?" 

'*y  don't  know.  She  will  leave  before  you  are — mar- 
ried"— the  word  seemed  to  choke  him — **  and,  Kathie, 
child,  I  do  wish  you  would  try  and  treat  her  with  common 
civility — for  my  sake,  if  not  for  hers." 

'*  And  why  for  your  sake,  papa  ?  I  hate  doing  things 
in  the  d«rk.  What  claim  has  she  upon  you  that  I  should 
becomo  a  hypocrite  and  treat  her  civilly  ?" 

"  The  claim  of — of  acquaintance  in  the  i)ast,  of  being 
my  guest  in  the  present.  And,  without  any  other  reason, 
J  ju  might  do  it  because  I  desire  it,  Katheriive." 

"  I  would  do  a  good  deal  to  oblige  you,  papa  ;  even  to — 
well,  even  to  being  civil  to  that  painted,  little,  soft-spoken, 
snake-eyed  woman.  She  has  eyes  precisely  Uke  a  snake,  and  is 
to  be  trusted  just  as  far.  I'apa,  what  is  it  she  knows  about  mv 
mother?" 

"  Your  mother !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Just  this — that  she  has  some  secret  in  her  possession  which 
you  are  afraid  she  will  tell,  and  the  secret  concerns  my  mother. 
Sie  is  trading  on  that  secret  in  forcing  herself  into  this  house, 
for  you  dislike  her  as  much  as  I  do.  Sir  John  Dangerfield,  onl) 
you  won't  own  it  I  am  to  be  kept  in  the  dark,  it  seems. 
Vefy  well  I  I  don't  want  to  pry  into  your  mysteries,  only  you 
»n't  expect  me  to  shut  -ny  eyes  to  what  goes  on  before  thenii. 
Foat  woman  has  some  secret  which  you  are  afraid  siie  will  tell, 
Mid  you  pay  her  large  sums  for  keeping  it,  and  that  secret  con- 
cerns my  mother.  Don't  look  so  thunderstnick,  papa!  I 
Ton't  turn  amateur  detective,  and  try  to  find  it  out,  and  I  will 
be  as  civil  as  it  is  in  human  nature — such  luiman  nature  as 
mine — to  be  ,  only  don  t  try  to  pass  off  that  creature  as  an  oH 
friend  or  anything  of  that  sort.  And  get  her  out  of  this  house 
M  soon  as  you  can,  for  all  our  sakes.*' 


r      J 


i 

'. 

(          .J, 

- 

i 

^ 

t 


; 


74 


r^#»    SRCO^P    WAKNIffG 


And,  when  Miss  Dangerfie)d  talked  out  of  tiie  rocm  in  :A 
fended  majesty,  Sir  John  was  left  to  enjoy  his  Times  as  best  he 
iii^t  after  learning  his  sharp-sighted  daughter  s  Jiscovery. 

K&therine  turned  in  her  saddle  now  and  looked  after  the 
liony  phaeton  and  its  occupant. 

*'  How  I  do  dislike  that  woman,  Gaston  ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"And  you're  an  uncommonly  good  hater,  pia  belle"  Mi. 
IHntree  answered,  coolly.  "  You  can  love,  but  you  can  hate 
tlto.  In  the  blissful  days  to  come,  when  I  am  your  lawful  lord 
and  nuistfir,  it  shall  be  my  Christian  endeavor  to  teach  you  bet 
ter  moiali^.  I  know  several  people  whose  enmity  I  should 
prefer  to  youn." 

"  I  could  never  be  an  enemy  of  yours,  Gastcn — never  !  Do 
what  they  might,  I  never  could  hate  those  whom  I  once  loved. 
My  likes  and  dislikes  come  at  first  sight  I  detested  that 
woman  from  the  moment  I  set  eyes  on  her." 

"  Feminine  instinct,  I  suppose.  There  is  no  love  lost  be- 
tween you,  darling.  I've  caught  her  looking  at  you  at  times 
when  die  thought  no  one  was  watching  her,  and — well,  it 
wasn't  a  pleasant  look,  either,  to  give  or  receive.  She  smiles  a 
great  deal,  but  it  isn't  a  very  mirthful  smile,  and  she's  the  sort 
of  woman  to  present  you  a  dose  of  strychnine  and  a  kiss 
together.  What  does  she  do  at  Scarswood?  An  old 
friend  of  his,  I  think  Sir  John  said.  He  didn't  look  at  her  in  a 
▼ery  friendly  manner,  by  the  bye,  as  he  said  it.  She  is  a  most 
unwelcome  intruder,  it  is  easy  to  be  seen,  to  Sir  John  as  well 
■s  to  yoiL     Why,  then,  does  he  not  give  her  her  cong'ef" 

"  Ah,  why,  indeed,"  Katherine  repeated,  with  a  frown  ;  "  I 
with  some  one  would  tell  me  why.  There  is  some  secret  un- 
dentanding  between  them  that  I  can't  fathom,  I  wonder  if 
papa  ever  committed  a  murder,  or  a  forgery,  or  some  interest- 
ing crime  of  that  sort,  and  that  this  little  human  cat  has  found 
it  <mt,  and  holds  the  secret  like  the  sword  of  Dam — whafs-his- 
Mune — suspended  over  his  head  by  a  single  hair.  That  would 
be  like  the  plot  of  a  modem  novel." 

"  Like  the  plot  of  a  aiodern  novel,  perhaps,  but  not  in  the 
least  like  Sir  John  Dangerfield.  Still  I  think  you're  right, 
Kathie ;  there  is  a  secret  understanding,  and  if  that  under- 
standing relates  to  a  crime,  I  don't  believe  Sir  John  ever  coni- 
mitt^d  It  The  dear  old  dad  doesn't  over  and  above  like  me, 
my  ^ling :  still  he's^  a  game  old  bird,  and  never  did  mortal 
or  woman  wilful  wrong  m  his  life,  I'm  positive.  Doesn't 
florid  little  widow  oflsn  an  odd  sort  of  ?ray  to 


TttB  SRCOSt^   ^AltSIhfG 


IS 


t  rocfn  in  :A 
es  as  best  he 
scovery. 
ea  after  the 

exclaimed. 

belle,''  Ml. 
you  can  hate 
ir  lawful  lord 
ach  you  bet- 
nity  I  should 

•never  1     Do 

once  loved. 

letested  that 

love  lost  be- 
you  at  times 
ind — well,  it 

She  smiles  a 
she's  the  sort 

and  a  kiss 
?  An  old 
>k  at  her  in  a 
She  is  a  most 
John  as  well 
ongkV 
a  frown  ;  "  I 
ne  secret  un- 

I  wonder  if 
Dme  interest- 
cat  has  found 
1 — whafs-his- 

That  would 

ut  not  in  the 
you're  right, 
f  that  undef- 
hn  ever  com- 
>ove  like  me, 
er  did  mortal 
ive.  Doesn't 
>rt  of  way  to 


prm  BMttMr,  Katfaie  ?  Now,  it  strikes  mt  the  teciet — for  thete 
\t  one— involves  her.'* 

**I  think  it  very  likely,  indeed,"  responded  Katherine,  •**Bd 
I  told  papa  so  only  yesterday." 

^  "  You  did  1     And  what  did  he  say  ?" 

%  **  Nothing  satisfactory — only  lost  his  tf:mi>er — a  chronicloii 

with  him  smce  Mrs.  Vavasor's  advent,  He  used  to  be  Um/ 
dearrst  old  love,  but  he's  become  completely  demoralized  sinrf 
tiiat  woman's  been  in  the  house.  She  always  talks  as  if  she 
had  been  an  intimate  friend  of  my  n^other's,  and  papa  fidgets, 
and  winces,  and  turns  red  and  pale  by  turns,  and  never  says  a 
word.  Mysteries  may  be  veiy  interesting,"  said  Miss  Danger- 
field  with  a  frown,  "  but  I'd  rather  have  them  neatly  bound  in 
doth  than  live  in  the  house  with  them.  One  comfort  is,  she  it 
going  to  leave  Scarswood  before — " 

J  Katherine  blushed,  and  laughed,  and  broke  off. 

*  "  Well,  ma  belle,  before  when  ?  " 

"  Before — oh,  well,  before  we  are  i.narried !  Now,  Gaston-— 
on  the  pnblic  road,  sir,  dorii  !  If  s  all  very  well  to  know  that 
die  sins  of  the  fiithers  shall  be  visited  on  the  children,  and  all 
that,  but  if  s  nowhere  in  the  catechism,  that  the  inconvenient 
firiendship  of  the  mother  shall,  and  1  devoutly  wish  our  visitoi 
hi  Joppa  1  I  never  saw  my  mother  that  I  can  recollect.  I 
never  heard  papa  speak  much  about  her,  and  everybody  tells 
me  I  don't  look  the  least  in  the  world  like  her — I  don't  look 
like  papa  either — Colonel  and  the  late  Mrs.  Dingerfiel<f  itert 
both  handsome.  No,  I  don't  want  a  compliment — not  evei 
your  eyes,  Gaston,  can  make  me  out  other  than  sallow  ai.4 
plain.  And,"  with  a  little  droop  of  the  head,  a  little  falter  o4 
the  young  voice,  "  I  never  wished  in  all  my  life  as  I  hav** 
wished  to  be  beautiful  since — I  have  known  you." 

"  My  dearest  Kathie,"  Mr.  Dantree  said,  politely,  struggling 
with  a  yawn,  '"  for  a  very  sensible  girl^  as  girls  go,  you  ctM 
talk  precious  nonsense  sometimes  !  Sallow  and  plain  !  I 
confess  I  should  never  have  found  it  out  if  you  had  not  told 
ne.  You  don't  want  to  be  cast  in  the  mould  of  the  stereotyjic 
British  young  lady,  I  hope,  with  a  face  like  a  pink  and  white 
wax-doll,  and  a  head  more  hollow.  I  can  only  sa;  if  you  ha^ 
fott  would  never  have  bewitched  me." 

*'  Gaiton, '  Miss  Dangerfield  said,  "  do  you  know  what  the^ 
say  in  Caiddbrd — what  Mrs.  Vavasor  says  about  you  ?  " 
'^  Not  at  preient,"  answered  Mr.  Dantree,  with  his  coiloi^ 


t» 


ill 


I  11 

■I  "• 


7W/.    SECOND    WARNmC. 


Mj  imperturbable  i^ant;  /raid,  "  nothing  good  thougfv  Vm  inito 
certain." 

**  They  say — it  is  almost  an  insult  to  you  to  lepeat  it — that 
it  is  not  Katherine  Dangerfield  you  love,  but  the  heiress  of 
Sourswood." 

Slae  looked  up  to  see  some  outburst  of  indignation — to 
liMT  an  indignant  denial.  But  Mr.  Dantree  only  smiled  be- 
nignly. 

"  You  d«n't  think  tliat  is  news  to  me,  do  you,  Kathie  ?  Oi 
jaunty  they  think — why  shouldn't  they — I  would  myself  in  the:? 
^lace.  My  dear  child,  you  are  sevcTiteen  and  haven't  seen  much 
of  life'—I'm  seven  and  twenty  3nd  have  seen  it  in  all  its  phases. 
\nd  I  telJ  you  no  poor  man,  such  as  I  am,  ever  married  a 
wealthy  wife  yet,  that  the  same  wasn't  said.  He  may  love  her 
«'ith  the  passion  of  a  second  Romeo — it  will  make  no  differ 
,ncc.  She  is  rich,  he  is  poor,  and  it  naturally  follows  he  must 
l>e  a  mere  mercenary  fortune  hunter.  There  -yere  people  in 
LyonSj  perhaps,  who  said  Claude  Melnotte  only  wanted  Pau- 
■i!  e  for  her  fortune,  until  he  [)roved  his  disinterestedness.  Ol 
-uise  they  say  I'm  a  fortune-hunter  and  adventurer — 1  would 
\  .  ery  greatly  surprised  if  they  did  not.  Your  father  thinks 
>_^Mrs.  Vavasor,  knowing  how  she  would  act  in  my  place, 
links  so — your  cousin  Peter,  furious  with  his  late  rejection, 
hinks  so.  But  yoE — Kathie — my  darling — "  he  bent  his  pa- 
thetic liquid  dark  eyes  upon  her,  **  you  surely  do  not ;  if  you 
do — then  here — this  moment  bid  me  go,  and  I  will  obey." 

"  Gaston — what  nonsense  !  If  I  believed,  would  I  be  at 
your  aide  now  ?     I  should  die  if  I  doubted  you.''" 

Mr.  Dantree  laughed  a  little  cynically. 

"No,  you  wouldn't  die,  Katnie.  Broken  hearts  went  out  ol 
fashion  with  Paul  and  Virginia  and  our  graat  grandmothers. 
You'd  not  die,  Kathie — you'd  forget  me  in  six  months  for — what 
fsu  couid  easily  find — a  better  man." 

Mr.  Dantree  was  right,  it  would  have  been  zvry  easy  to  find 
f  better  man,  but  Katherine  Dangerfield  was  seventeen,  and  the 
ffamour  of  a  melodious  voice,  of  Spanish  eyes,  and  a  face  lik* 
iOftie  Rembrandt  picture  was  upon  her,  and  her  whole  heart 
iS28  in  the  wcrds. 

"  I  would  never  forget.  When  I  forget  you — true  or  dilse— h 
t  shall  have  forgotten  all  things  eartnly." 

Something  in  her  tone,  in  her  eyes,  moved  him.  He  lifted 
'3B«  oi  her  hands  and  kissed  it 

*<  I  a£»i  not  hftlf  woi*hy  such  love  and  mist  a«  yomra.     I  ara  t 


\iV^ 


THE   SECO^rVt    \^AliNtKG 


77 


i  it— that 
[leiress  ol 

ation — to 
miled  be- 

hic?     Ot 
:lf  in  thfri? 
een  miich 
ts  phases, 
named  a 
y  love  her 
no  differ 
s  he  must 
peoi^le  in 
nted  Paii- 
ness.     Ol 
— 1  would 
her  thinks 
my  place, 
rejection, 
nt  his  pa- 
)t ;  if  you 
bey." 
1  I  b«  at 


ent  out  of 
dmothers. 
for — what 

isy  to  find 
n,  and  the 
a  face  lik^ 
lole  heart 

or  false-H 

He  lifted 

8.    laraa 


m 


Kathie — not  fit  to  kiss  the  hem  of  youi  g^umoit     My 
been  one  long  round  of 


*  Racfclw  dajrt  aad  reddcM 
Uaksly  • — g-  and  ti^ftf  ' 


Bat  I  wl!l  try — I  will — to  make  you  happy  when  you  are  Wf 
wife.  And  the  sooner  that  day  comes  now  the  better.  Miaf 
Dangerficld,"  resuming  his  customary  careless  tone,  "  are  yon 
iware  it  is  beginning  to  rain?" 

It  had  been  a  fitful  October  day — now  sungleams,  now  gray 
gloom.  Katherine  looked  up  at  the  sky,  and  one  great  drop, 
then  another  fell  upon  her  fr  ;e.  The  whole  sky  was  dark  with 
drifting  clouds,  and  growing  each  instant  darker.  The  storm 
frhich  had  been  brewing  all  day  was  close  upon  them. 

"  A&u  we  are  five  miles  from  Scars  wood  and  in  five  minutel 
die  lain  \i\\  descend  Jh  torrents.  Gaston,  what  shall  we  do? 
I  had  rather  not  get  drenched,  papa  will  scold." 

"  And  1  had  rather  not  get  drenched  even  without  a  papa  to 
scold.  Drenching  includes  influenza,  watery  eves,  and  a  ten 
dency  totalk  through  one's  nose,  and  is  nof  an  interesting  com- 
plaint. Can't  we  run  to  cover  somewhere  ?  You  know  every- 
body in  this  neighborhood,  There's  Major  Marnhmont's  yon- 
der— aren't  those  the  ivied  turrets  of  Marchmont  Place  1 
behold  through  the  trees  ?  " 

"  Y-e-e-8." 

"  My  dear,  I  understand  your  hesitation.  The  gallant  majoi 
did  his  best  to  snub  me  the  other  day,  but  I'm  of  a  forgiving 
turn  and  don't  much  mind.  I  think  I  could  endure  that  eld 
officer's  grim  looks  more  easily  than  the  raging  elements  on  the 
cspen  downs.     Shall  we  make  for  Marchmont  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Katherine  ;  "  if  yj\i  can  endure  Major  March- 
wiont's  insults,  I  can't.  We  can  do  better  than  that — we  can 
g9  to  Brackei-j  Hollow." 

"  With  all  my  heart.     Where  is  Bracken  Hollow  ?  " 

"  Not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  oflf.  This  way,  Gaston,  or  we 
ihaJi  get  the  drenching  after  all.  The  place  belongs  to  my  old 
nurse — sh'<;  came  with  us  from  India,  and  papa  gave  her  the 
place  to  end  her  days  in,  and  to  get  rid  of  her  ;  she  and  Nmoa 
aay  maid,  led  a  perfect  cat-and-dog  life.  Quick,  Gaston  I  Good 
graciousj,  what  a  deluge  I  " 

The  Ttxn  was  falling  in  torrents  now.  Ilderim  fairly  flev  be- 
fewfe^-aFid  \ff.  Dan  tree  followed  his  kadcr.    They  were  close 


!J 


ij 


'£     ,1 


to  the  oomC  ,  far  away  the  white  foaming  sea  heared  ib  dil 
booming  on  the  shore  mingled  with  the  rush  of  the  rain. 

"  Here  we  are  1 "  Katherine  cried :  "  and  we  have  got  IIm 
drenching  after  alL" 

And  then  Gaston  Dantree  looked  up  and  beheld  Brackca 
HoUow. 

A  long,  low,  black-looking  house,  lying  in  a  sheltered  green 
boUow,  cloie  to  the  shore,  the  brake  or  bracken  growing  thic) 
and  high  all  around,  and  tall  elms  shutting  it  in.  An  eerie 
^pot,  with  the  eternal  thunder  of  the  sea  close  down  below  tht 
diib  ;  a  lonely  spot,  with  no  othe**  habitation  near. 

Gaston  Dantree  was  in  no  way  a  superstitious  or  iniagini> 
tive  mar^,  but  now  as  he  looked,  that  chill,  creeping  feelipg 
stole  over  him — that  impressible  shudder  which  makes  people 
Niy  "some  one  is  walking  over  my  grave,"  thrilled  through 
Idm. 

"  A  ghastly  place  enough,  Kathie,"  he  said,  leaping  off  his 
horse  ;  "  a  murder  might  be  committed  here  and  no  one  be  the 
wiser." 

"  A  murder  once  was  committed  here,"  Katherine  answered  ; 
"  a  terrible  murder.  A  young  girl,  no  older  than  I  am,  shot 
her  false  lover  dead  under  those  funeral  elms.  They  took  her, 
nied  her,  condemned  her,  and  hung  her,  and  they  say  those 
ghostly  lovers  keep  tryst  here  still." 

Gaston  Dantree  still  stood  by  his  horse,  looking  with  extreme 
disfavor  at  the  black  cottage,  at  the  blacker  trees. 

"  A  horrible  story,  and  a  horrible  place.  I  don't  know  why, 
but  if  you'll  believe  me,  Kathie,  I  feel  afraid  to  enter  thai 
house.  I'm  not  a  coward  in  a  general  way,  and  once,  out 
West,  slept  a  whole  night  in  a  room  with  a  dead  man,  a  fellow 
fdio  had  cut  his  own  throat,  without  feeling  any  particular 
qoalms  about  it ;  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  want  to  enter  here.  II 
1  believed  in  presentiments  now,  or  if  there  were  such  tnings,  1 
should  say  some  awful  fate  was  going  to  befall  idc  at  Braoten 
HoUow  1 " 

'<  Gaston,  don't  be  a  goose,  and  don't  be  German  and  meta- 
physicaL  Some  awful  fate  will  overtake  you  at  Bracken  Hc^- 
low,  and  that  speedily  if  you  don't  come  in  out  of  me  ndn — an 
attack  of  inflammatory  rheumatism." 

She  skurried  with  uplifted  skirts  into  the  lew  pot ch,  and  hei 
lorer  slowly  followed. 

Katherine  knocked  loudly  and  imperatively  at  the  door. 
She's  deal,  poor  soul,"  she  said.     ''  It's  the  oaly  one  ol  \m 


u 


i 


THR    SRCOND   WAMNIffO. 


79 


4  hM 

dn. 

re  got  tlw 

dBrackeB 

sred  green 

Hring  thic) 

An  eerie 

below  th« 

-  iniagin£r 
ng  feelipg 
es  people 
d  through 

ng  off  his 
me  be  the 

mswered ; 

[  ain,  fhot 

^  took  her^ 

say  those 

th  extreme 

^now  ffhy, 
enter  that 
once»  OQl 
n,  a  fellow 
particular 
r  here.  II 
bUiings,  1 
it  BraoLen 

and  meta' 
dLcn  Hc^. 

5  rain— ao 

b*f  and  hei 

door. 
oneollMi 


(bcsltiet,  except  her  teeth,  that  she  hat  lost     Arc  one*8  teetb 
one's  (acuities,  Gaston  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  dear,  and  extremely  important  about  dirner-tine 
I  canfl  say  I  envy  your  ex-nurse  the  cheerful  spot  in  which  th« 
b  spending  the  lively  remainder  of  her  days.  Ah,  the  doof 
opens.  Now  for  the  presfding  witch  of  Bracken  Hollow, 
ftracken  Hollow — there's  something  ghostly  and  gloomy  in  tbt 
veiy  name." 

A  tall  old  woman,  nale  and  erect,  with  iron-gray  hair  ami 
pretematurally  bright  eyes,  held  open  the  door  and  looked 
stolidly  at  her  two  visitors. 

**  How  do,  Hannah  ?  Get  out  of  the  way,  you  hospitable 
old  soul  and  let  us  in.  You  needn't  mind  if  you're  not  dressed 
for  company — considering  the  weather  we  won't  be  fastidious 
Any  port  in  a  storm,  you  know.  This  is  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree, 
Hannah.     You've  heard  of  him,  I  dare  say." 

Old  Hannah  reared  herself  a  little  more  upright  and  trans- 
Hxed  the  Louisianian  with  her  brilliant  little  eyes. 

"  I've  heard  of  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree — yes,  Miss  Katherine, 
and  I'm  glad  you've  brought  him  to  see  me." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  be  very  cordial  about  it  then ;  you  don't 
say  you're  glad  to  see  him." 

"I'm  not  a  fine  lady.  Miss  Katherine — I  don't  tell  polite 
lies.  I'm  not  glad.  You're  going  to  marry  him,  they  say — is 
It  true?" 

"  Well,  yes,"  Katherine  laughed,  good-naturedly,  "  I'm  afraid 
it  is.  You  pity  him,  nursey,  don't  you  ?  You  took  care  of  me 
A  decade  of  years  or  so,  and  you  know  what  he  has  to  ex- 
pect" 

"  I  pity  you  ! "  old  Hannah  answered,  with  a  secor.d  solemn, 
prolonged  stare  at  her  nurseling's  lover ;  "I  pity  you  !  Only 
•erenteen,  and  trouble,  trouble,  trouble  before  you." 

It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  stare  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree  oul 
of  countenance  as  a  general  thing,  but  his  eyes  fell  now  belors 
old  Hannah's  basilisk  gaze. 

"  Confound  the  hag  I "  he  muttered,  turning  to  the  window ; 
**  what  does  she  mean  ?  " 

Katherine  was  fond  of  her  old  nurse — too  fond  to  be  urritate^ 
•ow  by  her  croaking. 

"Don't  be  disagreeaWf;,  Hannah,"  she  said;  "and  don't 
•tare  in  thai  Gorgon-like  way  It's  rude,  and  Mr.  Dantiee  if 
oiodest  to  a  fault  See  how  you  put  him  out  of  countenance.  Sif 
dowB  here,  like  a  dear  old  thing,  and  tell  me  all  about  tne  rheu 


to 


TffP  SHCOr/D   ^4fwr~vo. 


. 


I, 


iTiAtisnif  and  what  you  want  me  \o  get  yon  foi  the  wintei ;  yon'O 
tiavc  lots  of  time  before  tlie  rain  hoRis  up." 

"The  rain  is  holding  up  now,  Kathie,"  her  lover  said  *'l 
knew  it  was  too  violent  to  last.  In  ten  minutes  ic  will  have 
ceased.     Come,  we  can  go." 

He  could  not  account  to  himself  for  his  feverish  haste  to 
leave  this  place — for  the  sudden  and  intense  dislike  he  YiaJl 
Aken  to  this  grim  old  woman. 

"  rU  go  and  r,ce  to  ^h<.  horses,"  he  said,  and  'vmoke  &  uga; 
io  the  porrb,  while  yu  la'k  to  yovir  nurs ;." 

He  quilted  the  loom.  Katherine  looked  after  the  ^acefvl 
figure  and  ne^^ligeru  walk  with  eyes  full  of  girlish  adiniiatiou  : 
Ihen  she  turned  to  llann^i' 

Isn't  he  handsome,  nursey  ?  Now  confess  ;  you're  sixty  oi 
more,  but  you  like  handsome  people  still,  don't  you?  Isn't 
he  just  the  very  handsomest  man  y  :  ever  saw  in  all  your 
Ve?" 

"  He's  rare  and  handsome,  Miss  Kathie,"  the  old  woiikao 
^d,  slowly  ;  "  rare  and  handsome  surely.  But,  my  little  one, 
don't  you  marri^  him.  It's  not  the  face  to  trust — if  s  as  false  as 
I's  fair." 

"  Now  Hannah,  I  can't  listen  to  this — I  really  can't.  I 
thought  you  would  have  wished  me  joy,  if  nobody  else. 
Everybody  says  horrid  things — nothing  is  too  bad  to  be  said  of 
Mr.  Dantree — and  all  because  he  is  poor  and  I  am  rich — fort* 
nne-hunter,  adventurer,  false.     If  s  a  shanrie." 

"Ifs  the  truth,  my  baimie.  Be  warned,  and  draw  back 
while  there  is  yet  time." 

Miss  Dangerfield  arose  with  calm  dignity.  It  wasn't  worth 
while  losing  one's  temper  with  old  Hannah. 

'*  Good-b^ ,  nursey — I'm  going.  You  are  disagreeable  to-day, 
and  I  always  go  away  immediately  from  disagreeable  people. 
I  shall  send  you  those  flannels,  though,  all  the  same.     Good- 

She  was  gone  as  she  si>oke.  The  rain  had  nearly  ceaseo, 
4i)id  Mr.  Dantree  was  waiting  for  her  impatiently.  His  dusk, 
Southron  face  looked  strangely  pallid  in  the  gray  uvilight  of  the 
wet  October  evening. 

"Come,  Kathie;  it  will  rain  again  presently,  and  night  will 
fill]  ir  half  an  hour.  The  sooner  we  see  the  last  of  Bracken 
Hollow  the  better." 

"  How  frightened  he  is  of  Bracken  Hollow  1 "  Katherine  said^ 
%ug^3liif  t  **  Uke  a  child  of  a  bogie.     Why,  I  wonder  ?  " 


A    r UTTER  FROM  NEW   ORLEANS, 


^t 


•*  Why,  indecii  i  Why  do  you  hate  Mrs,  Varaaor,  Kjttb 
wine  }    She  hasn't  given  you  any  cause — ycL 

" '  I  do  DOt  tfte  ytra.  Dr.  P«IL 
Hm  rwwoa  wky,  I  caoBOt  wBL ' 

I  can't  tell  you  why,  but  I  never  want  to  see  Bracken  HoOov 
•fain." 

She  lookeii  up  into  his  face.  What  a  darkly  moody  exprrs 
•io  it  wore  I  It  half-spoiled  his  beauty.  And  all  the  wa? 
home,  through  the  chill,  rainy  gloaming,  old  Hannah's  wortu 
rang  like  a  warning  in  her  ears  :  "  False  ah-  fair — false  as  fail  1  *' 


your 


CHAPTER    VIII 


back 


said^ 


A    LLTTBR   FROM    NKW   '    lLIw.«iS1l». 

IR.  DANTREE  dined  at  Scars*vuod,  and  rode  home 
ward  through  the  weL  darkness  somewhere  before  »id 
night. 

It  had  been  a  very  pleasant  evening,  and  the  IxM-^i* 
ianian  was  in  the  best  po^ ible  spirits  as  he  rode  back  to 
Morecambe.  The  day  was  drawing  near  when  a  more  splen- 
did abode  than  Morecambe  would  be  his — when  he  would 
reign  supreme  at  Scarswood  Park. 

"  The  governor  can't  hold  out  very  long  now,"  Nf r.  Dantref 
mused.  "  After  thirteen  years  of  hill-life  in  India,  his  liver 
can't  be  the  size  of  a  walnut — and  then,  he's  apoplectic.  Youi 
ahort-necked,  florid-faced,  healthy-looking  okl  buffers  aie  alwayi 
fragile  blossoms ;  it's  touch-and-go  with  them  at  any  moment 
And  he's  taking  his  daughter's  engagement  to  my  noble  sell 
desperately  to  heart — he's  been  breaking  every  day  since.  I 
wonder  what's  up  between  him  and  the  little  widow?  h 
wouldn't  je  pleasant  v'  she  should  turn  out  to  be  a  first  wife,  oi 
something  of  that  sort,  and  at  his  death  produce  an  interest !ng 
heir  or  heiress  and  oust  Mrs.  Dantree.  It  look^  suspiciously 
like  it ;  she's  got  a  strong  claim  of  some  kind  upon  him,  an<? 
he's  more  afraid  of  her  thsn  he  ever  M'as  of  the  savagest  Sejx)y 
out  yonder.  I  wish  I  could  get  at  the  l)ottom  of  the  rnatici, 
before  I  commit  myself  further  aiia  slip  ihc  ruig  over  JVliss  Dun 
jf?TfieW?s   finger.     Not  that   it   /natters  very  greatly— neithei 


1*1   "I 


1 1  'i 


f! 


n 


,' 


'.\ 


'l  ^ 

i 


89 


A   LETTRR  FROM  NEW  ORLEANS* 


!      , 


.■•■<      I    ? 

■■■(     "'   ■■' 


■MUiiuionial  noi  aoy  other  fetters  ever  could  bind  me.  It  m^ty 
all  turn  out  right,  however,  and  I  may  reign  grand  seigneur  i>1 
Scarswood.  Rather  a  change  in  a  few  months,  for  a  pennilesi 
penny-a-liner.  Marie's  the  only  drawback.  If  ever  she  ^di 
this  out,  there'll  be  the  devil  to  pay  in  New  Orleans," 

Miss  Dangerfield  had  been  rather  sur])rised  when  on  enter 
ing  the  drawing-room  that  evening,  after  her  wet  ride  fronr 
Bracken  Hollow,  she  found  her  cousm  Peter  playing  chess  with 
Mrs.  Vavaitor.  It  was  the  first  time  since  their  qupn-el  that  he 
kad  entered  the  house.     She  went  over  to  him  with  the  frank, 

K'  lish  grace  that  always  characterized  her,  and  gave  him  het 
nd. 

"  Welcome  back  to  Scarswood,  cousin,"  she  said ;  "  I  begar 
to  think  you  had  quite  deserted  us.  Is  it  to  the  claims  of  kin- 
ship or  to  the  fascinations  of  Mrs.  Vavasor  we  owe  the  present 
^riait,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  A  little  of  both,  Kathie\.  and  a  cousinly  desire  to  offer  my 
UMigratulations  to  the  future  Mrs.  Dantree.  I  wish  you  botJr 
erery  happiness." 

He  did  not  look  at  her  as  he  said  it,  and  something  in  hit 
voice  struck  unpleasantly  on  Katharine's  ear. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  she  said,  a  little  coldly.  "  Mmf  I 
overlook  your  game  ?     Who  is  going  to  win  ?  " 

''  I  am  of  course.  We  come  of  si  race,  Kathie,  that  alwmyr 
win." 

But  Mr.  Dangerfield  was  mistaken. 

**  Check  I "  Mrs.  Vavasor  cried,  shjirply  and  triumphantly,  9 
few  minutes  after.  "  Yo\u:  race  may  always  win  except — when 
diey  have  a  Vavasor  for  an  enemy."' 

Katherine's  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Try  again,  Peter,"  she  said ;  "  a  Dangerfield  never  yielda  I " 

*'  I  fear  I  must ;  I  am  no  match  for  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Ah  \ 
licffe  is  Dantree — lucky  dog  I  1  must  go  over  and  congratulatt 
ham.  If  s  not  every  day  a  poor  devil  ai"ops  into  eight  thousand 
a  year  and  the  finest  place  in  the  county." 

"  Kjitherine  dear,  supix)se  you  try,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  gayly  ex- 
claimed, "  and  vindicate  the  honor  of  the  Dangerfields.  I  pla) 
chess  pretty  well,  but  who  knows — you  may  bccocne  more  thao 
a  match  for  me  " 

"  Well,'*  Katherine  said  coolly,  "  I  think  in  the  long  run  I 
would  I  have  a  great  deal  of  determination — obstinacy  pv- 
iMps  voa  might  call  it — and  when  i  make  up  my  mind  to  dp 
aaythiiig,  1  genei-ally  4^  do  it* 


4  LMTTRIt  PKOU  HEW  OkLKAttS. 


•3 


It  HUT) 

fneur  t»l 
enniles* 
be  ^di 

a  enter 
de  fronr 
essinth 
that  he 
e  franK 
him  hef 

I  begar 
I  of  kin- 
present 

3ffer  my 
ou  botir 

ig  in  hit 
"  Mar  ' 

talwa]r 


lantlj,  9 
; — when 


rielda  1 " 
Ahf 
;ratulate 
liouaand 

;ayly  ex- 
Iplay 
ore  thao 

tig  run  ] 
acy  pw- 
m1  to  dp 


"Sach  at  manning  a  handsome  tenur  linger.     Don^t  be  an 
;y,  Katherine.     Mr.   Dantree  is  worthy  of  you,  I   am 


Now,  then,  for  a  pitched  battle  between  you  and  me,  and  woe 
to  the  conquered  1 " 

There  was  a  sneering  defiance  underlying  her  words — a  wu^ 
donic  gleam  in  her  black  eyes  that  Katherine  understood. 
There  was  more  at  stake  than  a  simple  game  of  chess ;  they 
'«oked  at  one  another  steadily  for  an  instant,  then  began  the 
game. 

The  two  gentlemen  approached.  Peter  Dangerfield  took 
hn  place  behmd  the  chair  of  the  widow ;  Mr.  Dantree  leaned 
lightly  over  that  of  Kathie.  They  stood  like  two  seconds 
watching  a  duel,  and  neither  spoke.  A  profound  stillness  filled 
lie  long,  velvet-hung,  lamplit  drawing-room,  in  which  you 
could  hear  the  light  falling  on  the  cinders  in  the  grate,  the 
ceaseless  beating  of  the  rain  on  the  glass.     Which  would  win  ? 

The  widow,  it  seemed.  In  the  gleam  of  the  lamplight  there 
was  a  flush  on  her  cheek  that  was  not  all  rouge,  a  sparkle  in 
her  black  eyes,  not  belladonna.  She  wore  a  wine-colored  silk, 
4ic9Ue1^^  and  her  plump,  white  shoulders  and  arms  shone  like 
marble ;  the  rich,  ruby-red  jeweb  flashed  on  her  fingers,  on  her 
neck ;  a  bracelet  of  fine  gold  and  rubies  encircled  her  wrist, 
and  a  crimson  rose  nestled  in  the  shining,  luxurious  blackness 
of  hair.  All  crimson  and  black — with  a  fiery  intensity  of  pur- 
pose flushing  her  (ace — and  that  peculiar  glittering  smile  of  hers 
9D  her  thin  lips.  Gaston  Danixee  thought  of  some  beautiful 
Circe — some  faial  siren  come  on  earth  to  work  ruin  and  dark- 
aess. 

"  And  yet,  after  all,"  he  thought,  "  I  believe  in  my  soul 
ICatherine  is  more  than  a  match  for  her.  How  coolly — how 
thoroughly  cahn  and  self-possessed  she  sits,  not  one  pulse  beat- 
ing the  quicker — while  tlie  eyes  of  her  enemy  are  on  fire  with  her 
ievilish  detexiuiaation  to  win.  In  a  long-drawn  battle  of  any 
kind  between  these  two,  I'd  back  the  heiress  of  Scarswood." 

Then  more  and  more  absorbed  in  the  game  he  forgot  even 
)o  think.  He  bent  over  until  his  crisp  black  curls  touched 
Katherine'^  cheek.  She  glanced  up  at  him  for  a  second — her 
idll  face  brightening — a  faint  color  coming  in  her  cheeks. 

"A  drawn  batile  is  it  not,  Gaston?"  she  said,  ''and  a  tiue 
Dtagerfield  prefers  death  to  defeat" 

Mrs.  Vavasor  saw  both  look  and  smile,  and  a  savage  reso^u 
•on  to  win  at  ail  haxards  possessed  her.  She  knit  her  straight 
bdack  brows,  and  bent  to  the  game,  her  lips  compressed  in  oixt 


A   LBTTKM  FROM  NEW  OMLEASS. 


\\ 


1} 


'     i     i 


IP- 


i 


•might  red  line.  She  hated  iCathenne  at  that  inometit  with  u 
intensity  she  had  never  felt  before.  How  coolly  she  sat  there 
making  her  moves,  with  a  face  of  marble,  while  she  was  UirillinA 
in  every  vein  with  a  fever  of  excitement.  And  how  she  loved 
that  man  behind  her,  and  how  happy  she  was  in  that  love. 

"  And  to  her  mother  I  owe  all  1  have  ever  suffered — the  fin, 
the  sorrow,  the  shame  I  l*ray  Heaven  they  may  fix  the  w«J 
ding-day  speedily,  or  I  shall  never  be  able  to  wait  1  I  woade 
how  1  have  waited  all  these  years  and  years.  Ah  !  a  false  more, 
luy  lady,  a  false  move.     The  victory  is  mine  ! " 

But  the  exultant  thought  came  too  soon.  Katherinc*i  mor*. 
made  after  long  deliberation,  certainly  looked  like  a  false  onr 
— the  widow  answered  in  a  glow  of  triumph.  A  second  latei 
and  the  saw  her  mistake — Katherine's  fal.se-sceming  move  haid 
bnn  made  with  deliberate  intention.  Her  eyes  flashed  for  the 
fkflt  time — she  made  a  last  rapid  pass  and  rose  conqueror. 

^  Checkmated  I "  she  cried,  with  a  slight  laugh  of  triumph 
•*  X  knew  I  should  vanquish  you  in  the  end,  Mrs.  Vavasor  I " 

^  Dinner  I "  announced  the  butler,  flinging  wide  the  door, 
and  Miss  Dangerfield  took  the  arm  of  Mr.  Dantree  and  swept 
with  him  into  the  dining-room. 

"You  did  that  splendidly,  Kathie,"  he  said  ;  "you  have  no 
Idea  how  proud  I  am  of  your  conquest ;  and  she  was  so  sure  ol 
winning.  She  hates  you  as  those  little  venomous  wopten  only 
can  hate— do  you  know  it  ?  " 

••  Certainly  I  know  it,"  Katherine  responded  with  supreme 
careieisneas.  "  I  have  known  it  ever  since  I  saw  her  first 
She  hates  me  and  could  strychnin**  me  this  moment  with  all  th< 
pleasure  in  life." 

"  But  why,  I  wonder  ?  "  said  Mr.  I>antrce,  **  you  never  kncv» 
her  before  she  came  here — yon  never  did  anything  to  haru; 
her?" 

"  My  deai-est  Gaston,  it  is  not  alw-iys  the  people  who  hart 
jk)oe  something  to  harm  us  we  dislike  most.  We  detest  therr 
because  we  detest  them.  Mrs.  Vavasor  and  1  are  antagonistic  ; 
we  would  simply  hate  each  other  under  any  circumstance* 
How  bent  she  was  on  winning  that  game,  and  I — 1  should  have 
liied  of  mortification  if  she  had." 

"  Take  care  of  her,  Kathie  !  tliat  woman  means  to  do  yo»i 
tnlnry  of  some  kind  before  she  quits  this  house.  Whether  it 
be  for  your  mother's  sake  or  your  own,  doesn't  matter — sk* 
IHoans  to  harm  you  if  she  can." 

Kjitherirve  threu'  back  her  head  with  tn  imperial  gestnre. 


4  LMrTBS  F/tO.V  K^Klf  OKL&ANi, 


ti 


utwith  u 
s  sat  there 
u  UirillinA 
she  loveo 
love. 

I — the  fin, 
the  we«l 

I  WOildA 

ilseiuovc, 

le*!  moire. 
L  false  out 
cond  latei 
move  hatd 
ed  for  the 
leror. 
'  triumph 
rasor  I " 
the  duur> 
ind  swept 

have  no 
8u  stire  (^ 
pien  only 

supreme 

her  first 

ith  all  the 

:ver  knew 
to  harm 

vho  hart 
est  thenf 
gonistic  i 
n  stances. 
Duld  have 

do  you 
Hiether  it 
tter — sk* 

store. 


4 


4 


**  Let  her  I  1  ofn  not  J'raid  If  ii  comes  to  thaf,  I  may  ItciM 
Iwr  at  her  own  game,  as  I  did  five  minutes  ago.  She  can't  tak« 
ytu  from  liic,  Gaston,"  with  a  little  gay  laugh — "  (:<ta  she  ?  Any- 
thing else  I  fancy  I  can  bear.'* 

He  stooped  and  answered  her  in  whispered  words,  and  KatK 
crine't  face  was  quite  radiant  as  she  took  her  place  at  tht 
table. 

Mrt.  Vavasor  foUowed  with  Mr.  Daugerfield.  She  had  rites 
Iron  the  table  and  taken  his  proffered  arm,  (juite  white  for  aa 
fofltant  through  all  her  rouge.  He  saw  that  pallor  beneath  pmt 
and  powder. 

'*  And  you  are  beaten  after  all,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  and  by  Kath- 
erine  Dangerfield  i  Yoiv  game  of  chess  meant  more  than  a 
nunc  of  chess — is  it  eiiiblenatic  ?  She's  fearfully  and  won- 
derfully plucky,  this  cousin  of  mine.  Will  she  come  off  vie 
torious  at  other  games  than  chess,  I  wonder  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  for  one  moment,  and  all  the  passion, 
the  rage,  the  hatred,  smouldering  within  her,  burst  forth. 

"  rU  crush  her  I "  she  cried  in  a  furious  whisper.  "  I'll  crush 
her  1  And  the  day  is  veiy  near  now.  This  is  only  one  more 
Rem  added  to  the  long  account  I  owe  her.  She  shall  yay  ofl 
all — the  uttermost  farthing,  with  compound  interest." 

"  And  stab  through  him,"  Peter  Dangerfield  said  darkly  ; 
"  the  surest  blow  you  can  strike  is  the  one  that  proves  him  the 
traitor  and  fortune-hunter  he  is.  I  believe  in  my  soul  it  would 
be  her  death." 

"I  shall  strip  her  of  all — all — lover — father,  name  even.  I 
will  wait  until  her  wedding-day  and  strike  home  then.  When 
her  cup  of  bliss  is  fullest  and  at  her  very  lips  1  shall  dash  i: 
down.  And,  my  brilliant,  haughty,  high  spirited  heiress  of  Sca« 
wood,  how  will  it  be  with  you  then  ?  " 

Sir  John  was  in  his  place — a  darkly  moody  host,  amid  the 
Siffhf?.  the  tlowers,  and  the  wines.  Mrs.  Vavasor  was  even  ir» 
higher  spirits  than  usual.  Mr.  Dangerhekl  was  talkative  and 
iCfreeable,  Katherine  was  happy,  and  disposed  to  be  at  peac« 
with  the  world  and  all  therein,  even  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Slie  loved, 
Ae  was  beloved — all  life's  greatest  happiness  is  said  in  that 
For  Mr  Dantree,  he  was  simply  delightful.  He  told  them  k\ 
iroitable  stories  of  life  in  the  Southern  States,  uiiiil  even  grim 
Sir  John  relaxed  into  interest,  and  after  dirnie-  ^ri  the  drawi.i/ 
room  sang  for  them  his  favorite  after-dinner  s;i«;::j<,  "  V^.^;t ti  iht 
Winecup  is  Sparkling  Before  Us,"  in  his  de*u"i'.:u3  v*  ice,  that 
«r»cbantM  cv^n  ti»«>oe  who  hat<^  Hin^  r,?t>st     Thi^  p«an<^  s*/?^ 


•  tl 


:! ; 


iij^ 


^ 

1 

\ 

<. 

i 
I  ! 

\ 

{ 

I 

1 

i 

'1 

! 
f 

I 

t 

i 

f 

i 

1 


'  I 


:'• 


!;■    r  I 


-ii   3 


IWi 


^   LETTER  FROM  Na^.W  OMLMAHS. 


in  A  ihAdcrry  recess  down  at  one  extremity  of  the  lonf  ?oom~> 
Katherine  and  he  had  it  all  to  themselves.  Mrs.  Vavasor  wm 
busy  with  some  flimsy  feminine  handiwork.  Mr.  Dangerfield 
sat  beside  her,  turning  over  a  book  of  photographs,  and  Sir  John 
Ijring  back  m  his  easy-chair,  kept  his  eyes  closed  as  though 
Atleep.  His  /ace  wore  a  worn  look  of  care — he  was  watching 
?hose  two  shadowy  figures  at  the  piano,  and  as  he  listened  to 
this  man's  voice,  so  thrillingly  sweet,  as  he  looked  at  his  face 
— the  lampligixt  streaming  on  his  dusk  Spanish  beauty,  he 
Karcely  wonde/ed  at  Katherine's  infatuation. 

"  Fairer  than  a  woman  and  more  unstable  than  water,"  he 
thought,  bitterly,  "  and  this  is  the  reed  she  has  chosen  to  lean 
upon  through  life  I  My  poor  little  Kathie,  and  I  am  powerieM 
to  save  yoii — nnl4<ts — I  si)eak  and  tell  all.  Heaven  help  you 
if  this  man  ever  finds  out  the  truth." 

*'  Sing  me  something  Scotch,  Gaston,"  Katherine  said.  She 
was  seated  in  a  low  tduteuil,  close  beside  him,  her  hands  lying 
idly  in  her  lap— her  head  back  among  the  cushions.  It  was 
characteristic  of  this  )oung  lady  that  she  had  never  done  a 
stitch  of  fancy-work  in  her  life.  She  was  quite  idle  now,  per- 
fectly happy — listening  tw  the  howling  of  the  October  storm  in 
the  park,  and  Mr.  Dantree's  exquisite  singing. 

**  Sing  something  Scotch  —a  ballad.  If  I  have  a  weakness, 
which  is  doubtful  it  is  for  Scotch  songs." 

Mr.  Dantree  heard  but  to  obey.  He  ran  his  fingen  lightlv 
over  the  keys,  smiled  slightly  to  himself,  and  glanced  half-mah- 
crmsly  at  the  girl's  supremel)  contented  face. 

"  How  well  pleased  she  looks,"  he  thought  "  I  wonder  if  I 
cannot  change  that  blissful  expression.  Many  women  have 
done  me  the  honor  to  fall  in  love  with  me,  but  I  don't  think 
3uiy  of  them  were  quite  so  hard  hit  as  you,  not  even  excepting 
Marie." 

He  played  a  {n'elude  in  a  plaintive  minor  key,  wonderfully 
sweet,  with  a  wailing  understrain,  quife  heart-breaking,  and  sang. 
His  face  changed  and  darkened,  his  voice  took  a  pathos  noos 
«<  his  beven  had  ever  heard  before. 


A  wwry  tot  is  thfaM,  bb  nuld- 

A  w«ftry  lot  U  thine  I 
To  pull  the  thorn  ttiy  brow  to 

And  press  the  rue  for  win*. 
A  UghtsoDie  eye,  a  M)tdier'B 

A  fcather  of  the  blue. 
A  douUet  of  the  IJocoin  grc 

Mo  more  of  me  tou  IomW, 
My  lB«el 

Ho  fltoro  of  iBC  fou  kamm. 


S  MMTTEM  if  ROM  NEW  OMIMMKi, 


I  room— 
rasor  WM 
mgerfield 
1  Sir  Johxs 
s  though 
watching 
stened  to 
his  face 
eauty,  he 

rater,"  he 
1  to  lean 
powerieM 
help  you 

ud.  She 
nds  lying 
It  was 
r  done  \ 
now,  pck- 
'  storm  in 

reakne«s, 

rs  lightly 
half-mah- 

onder  if  I 
!ien  have 
n't  think 
excepting 

mderfiilly 
andsaog. 
hos  mmt 


MVB  k  mmcrf  Jmm<  I 

The  row  Is  buddiim  fain. 
But  the  shall  bloom  in  winter 

Era  we  two  meet  again  I 
H*  turaed  his  charger  as  b« 

Upon  the  river  thore — 
■•  nTe  the  reins  ■  shake,  aad  mU  t 

*JLdicu  fbrevermore. 

My  love  I 

Adieu  iwweiumre.*" 

It  dkd  out  faint  and  low  as  the  last  cadence 
bynin.  And  then  he  glanced  at  Katherine.  He  had  changed 
the  expression  of  that  sensitive  face  cruelly — it  iay  back  now 
•gainst  the  ruby  red  of  the  velvet,  as  colorless  as  the  winter 
snow  of  which  he  sang.     He  arose  from  the  piano  with  a  laugh. 

"  Kathie,  you  are  as  white  as  a  ghost.  1  have  given  you  the 
blue*  with  my  singing,  or  bored  you  to  death.     Which  ?  " 

She  laughed  a  little  as  she  rose. 

"  Your  song  was  beautiful,  Gaston,  but  twice  too  sad — it  has 
giren  me  the  heartache.  It  is  too  suggestive,  I  suppose,  ol 
iuan'9  perfidy  and  woman's  broken  trust.  I  never  want  to  hear 
you  sing  that  again." 

It  was  late  when  the  two  gentlemen  bade  good-night  and 
left.  Mrs.  Vavasor  took  her  night  lamp  and  went  up  the  black 
oaken  stairway,  her  ruby  silk  trailing  and  gleaming  in  luri<i 
splendor  behind  her. 

"  Good-night,  Kathie,  darling — how  pale  and  tired  the  child 
looks.  And  you  didn't  like  that  divine  Mr.  Oantree's  last 
•ong  ?  It  was  the  gem  of  the  evening  to  my  mind — so  sug- 
gestive and  all  that.  Bonne  nuit  et  bonms  reves^  ma  helU  " — 
Mrs.  Vavasor  had  a  habit  among  her  other  gushing  habits  o( 
gushing  out  into  foreign  languages  now  and  th<*n — "  ai>d  try 
and  get  your  bright  looks  back  to-morrow.  I>vn't  let  youz 
ccxnplexion  fade  for  any  man — there  isn't  one  oo  earth 
k.     A  demaim  /  good-night 

** '  A  UgfataotM  eye,  a  •okUer's  aikM, 
A  fcather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lioooln  . 
li«  wtan  of  bm  tou  knew, 

My\or% 
N*  Boni  of  BM  yiM  kMv  I ' 


Asd  with  a  last  backward  glance  and  still  singing  the  oouxkxm 
brilliant  little  Mrs.  Vavasor  vanished. 

Mr.  Gaston  Dantree  rode  back  to  his  temporary  home  at 
Moi^ecAmbe  m  very  excellent  spirits.  What  an  uncotuman^ 
food4o«^bi^  JMubatin^  sort  of  feUow  be  nuat  Iw  llMit  «tf  tiM 


A  LBTTE*  PgOM  tfBIV  OMLBjOn, 


it 

;  J! 
I 


I 


III 


?  ' 


^  ^^U 


•I . 


'. 


i  i 

i 

! 

.1 
■ 

i 

1 

■ 

t 

;    i 

f 
i 

• 

^Mold  lose  their  beads  for  him  in  this  faahkm.  SMiy 
tiftp  fods  who  presided  ov€ir  his  destiny  must  have  been  m  f 
MOM  fHPopitious  mood  when  they  created  him  their  bright  |«ilic> 
«lar  star. 

"  Pve  always  heard  it  is  better  to  be  bom  lucky  than  Hebe 
■cd  gad  I  I  believe  fc.  /  was  bom  a  pauper.  My  mother 
vended  apples  in  the  streets  of  New  York ;  and  my  father— 
well|  the  less  said  about  him,  the  better.  He  bequeathed  nM 
Ids  good  looks,  his  voice,  and  his — loose-fitting  morality.  Un- 
til the  age  of  eight,  I  ran  wild  about  the  streets  ;  then  my  pretty 
free,  and  curly  head,  and  artistic  way  of  singing '  Oh,  Susannah ! ' 
attiacted  the  attention  of  Mrs.  Weymore,  rich,  childless,  senti- 
mental, good-natured,  and — a  fool.  I  was  sent  to  school, 
tricked  out  in  velvet  and  ruffles,  kissed,  praised,  petted,  flat- 
tered, spoiled  by  all  the  ladies,  young  and  old,  who  visited  my 
foster  mamma;  and,  by  Jove !  they've  b^en  at  it  ever  since. 
Then  at  plxteen  came  that  ugly  little  episode  of  ihe  forged 
check.  That  was  hushed  uj).  Then  followed  the  robbery  ol 
Mrs.  Weymore' s  diamonds,  traced  clearly  home  to  me.  They 
w«>uld  not  overlook  that.  I  inlierited  my  light-fingered  pro- 
clivities from  my  father  as  well  as  the  good  looks  they  praised ; 
but  they  wouldn't  take  that  into  consideration.  Then  for  four 
years  there  was  the  living  by  my  wits — doing  a  little  of  every- 
thing under  heaven.  Then  came  New  Orleans  and  my  new, 
•uid,  I  flattered  myself,  taking  cognomen  of  Gaston  Dantree, 
my  literary  ventures,  and  their  success  in  their  way.  And  thet 
sfter  three  years  more  came  old  De  Lansac  and  Marie — pooi 
little  Marie.  I  tliought  I  had  found  the  purse  of  Fortunatus 
then,  when,  lo  1  the  old  fool  must  up  and  get  married.  And, 
as  if  that  weren't  enough,  there  must  follow  an  heir,  and  adieu 
to  all  Marie's  hopes  and  mine.  Then  I  crossed  the  Atlantic  to 
try  my  luck  on  this  side  the  pond,  and  I  believe  I've  accom 
filished  my  destiny  at  last,  as  lord  of  Scars  wood,  at  eight  thou- 
sand a  year.  I  believe  I  shall  be  a  square  peg,  fitting  neat 
•nd  trim  into  a  square  hole.  Katherine's  a  drawback — exact- 
ing, and  romantic,  and  all  that  bosh — but  everything  m  we 
wi'iA  it,  is  not  for  this  world  below.  The  old  gentleman  will  go 
loos  up  hhortiy.  I  shall  take  the  name  of  Sir  Dantree  Dan- 
jj^<n&eld,  siiik  the  Gaston,  and  live  happy  forever  after." 

Mr.  Danvree  was  still  singing  that  ballad  of  the  faithl^^An  lovei 
a«  he  ran  lightly  upstairs  to  his  room.     He  threw  off  Iris  wei 
OTSCCCiat,  poked  the  fixe,  turned  uj^^  the  lamp, 
^!!fcie  ft 


ii 


Sitfiiy 
n  m  f 

|«iliC' 

mother 
ither— 
[lediiM 
'.  Utt. 
|r  pretty 
.nnah ! ' 
s,  senti- 
school, 
ed,  flat- 
ited  my 
•  since. 

forged 

)bery  ol 

They 

ed  pro- 

)raised ; 

for  four 

f  every- 

ay  new, 

)antree, 

ndthec 

J — pool 

tunatus 

And, 

d  adieu 

antic  to 

accoin 
It  thou- 
ng  neat 

-ezac^ 
m  ne 

will  go 

-I  Dan 

rM»love» 
lri«  weJ 
o&  ttk« 


A   Uii'TEJfC   F/:OM   NEW   ORLEANS,  ^ 

Now  a  letter  to  the  hands^"     "  tenor  singer  was  not  an  agreC" 

able  sight.      Letters  simj)])'  r       ..t  duns  or  else—  Fie  snatched 

it  up  with  an  oath.     This  was  no  dun  ;  it  was  something  evci 

worse.     It  was  su])erscribed  in  a  woman's  hand,  and  was  po8t« 

'  marked  New  Orleans. 

"  From  Marie,  by  jiiinter  ! "  he  exclaimed,  blankly.  "  Now, 
bow  the  dev — ah,  I  have  it.  It  came  to  my  address  in  Ix)ndon, 
and  the  publishers  have  forwarded  it  here.  Shall  I  open  it,  off 
pitch  it  into  the  fire  unread  ?  Deuce  take  all  women.  Can  they 
never  let  a  fellow  alone  ?  What  a  paradise  earth  would  be  with- 
out them  I  " 

He  did  not  throw  the  letter  into  the  fire,  however.  Wi  threw 
himself  into  an  easy  chair  instead,  stretched  forth  his  spLa^hed 
ridinc  boots  to  the  blaze,  and  tore  it  open.  It  had  the  nK.riJ 
ol  being  brief  at  least,  and  remarkably  to  the  point  : 

New  Orleans,  Sept.  i6th,  1869. 
Gaston  : — Are  you  never  going  to  write  ? — are  you  never  cominf 
bock  ?  Are  you  ill  or  are  you  faithless  ?  The  la.st,  surely  ;  it  would  1*  it* 
keeping  with  all  the  rest.  Does  your  dead  silence  ineaii  thuit  I  am  deserted 
and  forever?  If  so,  only  say  it,  siu\  vou  are  free  as  the  wind  that  blows. 
I  will  never  follow  you — never  ast:  aught  of  yt>u.  No  man  alive — though 
he  were  ten  thousaiid  times  more  to  nic  tluui  y(/u  have  l>cen— shall  ever  ht% 
sued  for  fidelity  by  me.  Come  or  stay,  a^  you  choose  ;  this  is  the  last  let- 
tar  I  shall  ever  trouble  you  with.  Return  this  and  all  my  other  letter*- 
my  picture  abo,  i/\  am  deserted.  But,  oh,  Gaston  \  Gaston  !  hare  I 
dascrved  this  ?  Marie. 

That  was  all.  The  woman's  heart  of  the  writer  had  broken 
forth  in  that  last  sentence,  and  r>he  had  stopfted,  fearing  to  tniM 
herself.  Mr.  Dantree  read  it  slowly  over,  looking  very  calm 
and  handsome  in  the  leaping  fijclight. 

"Plucky  little  girl  "  was  his  finishing  comment ;  "it  is  hard 
lines  on  her,  after  all  that's  past  and  gone.  Hut  there's  no  help 
for  it,  Marie.  *  I  have  learned  to  love  another—  I  have  liroken 
every  vow — we  have  parted  from  each  other — and  your  heart 
li  lonely  now,'  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  wonder  if  I  ever 
kad  a  heart  !  I  doubt  it  I'm  like  Minerva,  a  heart  was  left 
out  in  ray  make-up  ;  I  never  was  really  in  love  in  my  life,  and 
I  don't  want  to  be.  Women  are  very  well  as  stepping-stonet 
to  fortune,  fame,  ambition  ;  but  for  love  in  the  abstract — ball  ! 
But  poor  little  Marie  !  if  I  ever  did  approar.li  the  spooney,  it 
wait  for  her  ;  if  I  have  it  in  r«e  to  cart^  for  anything  or  anyfcKKly 
bat  mvseii^  it  is  for  her." 

And  ikmo,  Mi.  Uantree  {Mrodu€<?d  a  littk  biack  pipe,  \o9a\c4 


A  i.nTTF.n  p?nM  j^nw  owlrai^s. 


i 


I  I 


, 


i; 


SI 


1,1 


..i     : 


I 


{^     ' 


'A 


I! 


to  the  muzzle,  struck  a  fusee,  and  fell  back  again  to  enjoy  hiiik 
fpIC  He  looked  the  picture  of  a  luxurious  Sybarite,  lounging 
■cgligently  among  the  cushions  before  the  genial  fire. 

"  And  I  know  she'll  keep  her  word,"  he  muttered  reflectively 
"  No  breach  of  promise,  no  avenger  on  the  track  in  this  ca^ 
Graston,  my  boy ;  all  nice  and  smooth,  and  going  on  velvet 
rhafi  a  good  idea  about  sending  back  the  letteis  and  photo 
graph.  I'll  act  upon  it  at  once.  A  married  man's  a  fool  whc 
keeps  such  souvenirs  of  his  bachelorhood  loose  about.  And 
KiiUiie  isn't  the  sort  of  girl  either  to  stand  that  species  of  non- 
lense — she's  proud  as  the  deuce,  as  becomes  the  daughter  of  an 
•Id  soldier,  and  as  jealous  as  the  devil ! " 

Mr.  Dantree  arose,  and  crossing  to  where  his  writing-case  lay, 
unlocked  it,  and  produced  a  package,  neatly  tied  up  with  blue 
•ibbon.  They  were  letters— only  a  woman's  letters — in  the 
iame  hand  as  that  of  to-night,  and  in  their  midst  a  carte  dt 
jfisiie.  He  took  this  latter  up  and  looked  at  it.  It  was  the 
bjc&  of  a  girl  in  her  first  youth,  a  darkly  piquante  face,  with 
two  large  eyes  looking  at  you  from  waving  masses  of  dark  hair 
— a  handsome,  impassioned  face,  proud  and  spirited.  And 
Gaston  Dantree' s  hard,  coldly  bright  brown  eyes  grew  almost 
lender  as  \\^.  gazed. 

"  Poor  child ! "  he  said — "  poor  little  girl !  How  pretty  she 
used  to  look  in  her  misty  white  dresses,  her  laces,  the  creamy 
roses  she  used  to  wear,  her  dusk  cheeks  flushed,  and  her  big 
blue  eyes  like  stars  !  Poor  little  thing  !  and  she  would  have 
laid  a  princely  fortune  at  my  feet,  with  her  heart  and  hand,  if 
that  old  bloke,  her  grandfather,  hadn't  euchred  her  out  of  it, 
And  I  would  have  been  a  very  good  husband,  as  husbands  go, 
to  little  Marie,  which  is  more  than  I'll  ever  be  to  this  other  one. 
Ah,  well  I     Sic  transit^  and  all  the  rest  of  it ! — here  goes  !  " 

He  replaced  the  vignette,  added  the  last  letter  to  the  others, 
iid  them  up  neatly  in  a  sheet  of  white  paper,  sealed  the  pact 
Hfe  with  red  wax,  and  wrote  the  address  in  a  firm,  clear  hand : 

*<  IfUe.  Ma&ik  Dk  LiiNSAC, 

*'  New  Orleans,  LouisiuMu" 

**  rU  mail  this  to-morrow,"  Mr.  Dantree  said,  putting  it  in  the 
pvclct  uf  his  overc  )at ;  "  and  now  I'll  seek  my  balmy  couch 
aa/.  *'0a»  tlii  god  vi  slumber.  I  dare  say  it  will  be  as  successliil 
m  tlkc  r«ft  of  my  wooing." 

Pwntew  a.  ^dreoMd  himself  leisureljr,  as  oe  did  aU  thlngft 


li  i  !i 


oyhink 

>unging 

ctively 
is  case, 
velvet 
photo 
>ol  whc 
And 
of  non- 
erof  an 

aselay, 
th  blue 
-in  the 
arte  dt 
was  the 
ce,  with 
urk  hair 
L  And 
ahnost 

stty  she 
creamy 
her  big 
d  have 
land,  if 
of  it, 
nds  go, 
ler  one. 

i!" 

other*, 
packp 

hand: 


It 


•• 


t  in  the 
^  couch 
cces&ful 

things 


THE    THIRD    WARNING. 


•» 


and  went  to  bed.  But  sleep  did  not  come  all  at  once ;  he  lay 
awake,  watching  the  leaping  firelight  flickering  on  the  wall,  and 
rhinking. 

"  What  %  after  a)i  now,  something  were  to  happen,  and  I  wer» 
lo  be  dished  again,  as  I  was  in  the  New  Orleans  aflair  r "  h« 
thought  "  By  Gecige  1  it  was  enough  to  make  a  nrj:n  cut  hii 
»wn  throat,  or — old  De  Lansac's.  A  million  dollars  to  a  deat 
Mtainty, — Marie  sole  heiress,  Marie  dying  for  me.  And  ther 
ie  must  go  and  get  married — confound  him  I  I  can't  think  Sii 
Jdlin  Dangerfield  i.s  dotard  enough  for  ihat^  but  still  delays  are 
dangerous.  I'll  strike  while  the  iron's  hot.  I'll  make  Katherine 
name  the  day,  to-morrow,  by  Jove.  Once  my  wife,  and  I'm 
safe.  Nothing  can  happen  then,  unless — unless — Heavens  and 
earth  I — tmless  Marie  should  appear  upon  the  scene,  as  they 
do  on  the  stage,  and  denounce  me  I " 

And  then  Mr.  Dantree  paused  aghast,  and  stared  blankly  at 
he  fire. 

"  It*!  not  in  the  least  likely  thorgh,"  he  continued.  "  Marie 
ii  not  that  aort  of  woman.  I  believe,  by  George  !  if  she  met 
me  a  week  after  she  gets  the  letters  back  she  would  look  me 
straight  between  the  eyes  and  cut  me  dead.  No — Marie  never 
will  speak — she  could  go  to  the  scaffold  with  her  head  up  and 
her  big  blue  eyes  flashing  defiance,  and  it's  a  very  lucky  thing  for 
mc  she's  that  sort  Still  it  will  be  a  confoundedly  ugly  thing  if 
she  ever  hears  of  me  again  either  as  Sir  Da  tree  I)angerfield  or 
the  heiress  of  Scarswood's  fiance.  She  ni.^ht  speak  to  savf 
Katherine.  But  no ; "  and  then  l\x.  Dantree  turned  over  with 
a  yawn  at  last  on  his  pillow,  "  who  ever  Ik  d  of  one  woman 
caving  another.  Men  do,  imX  women — nt  r !  I'll  have  the 
wedding  ^^  %$a/^  to-monQW;  and  it  shal^  I    ipeedJi/'" 


CMArrKt  D 


THK   THIRD    WABHtmU. 


|HE  rain  passed  with  the  night,  and  a  shglM  fr'*tA  set  |p 
with  the  new  day.     Mr.  Dantree  was  due  at  a  hunting 
party  at  l.angton  Brake,  to  be  '' llowed  by  a  ball  aU 
Langton  Royals.     He  would  n^  ol  Miss  DangerlieW 
•o  his  way  to  cover,  and  she  should  fix  their  we'^ding  day. 


!i 


Mi 


1 1 


I 


^ 


THF    THinn    'A'ARNiNG. 


A  MWtherly  winri  and  a  cloi.dy  sky  proclaiin  it  <i  hiuinng 
rning,"  Mr.  Daiitrec  hnnuiicd.  "Before  J  am  tiircc  hoi;^ 
older  1  jrihall  put  my  talc  to  y\\v.  tcnu-.h,  '  to  win  or  lose  it  all.'  I 
wonder  if  a  baronet's  <uu!ghter  coiiK!  get  up  lier  trousseau  ift 
three  months  ?  She  won'!,  object  to  naming  an  early  day,  i 
know  :  she's  in  love  wifh  n;c  beyond  all  redemption,  and  Tw 
in  lov^  with  her — eight  thousand  a  year." 

Mr.  Dantrce  breakfasted,  mounted  "  a  red  roan  steed,"  Mu! 
looking  unspeakably  well  in  his  very  becoming  hunting  cos- 
tume, set  otf  for  the  meet  at  l.angton  IJrakc. 

The  baronet's  dauglner  was  there  befx)re  him,  surrounded  by 
h^l  a  do/.en  red-coats,  sitting  a  powerful-looking  black  horse 
as  though  it  had  been  an  easy  chair,  and  looking,  as  she  alwayg 
did  on  horseback,  her  beet.  But  while  she  talked  and  laughed 
with  her  attendant  cavaliers,  her  gaze  kept  ever  impatiently  turn- 
ing in  one  direction,  and  us  (iaston  Dantree  galloped  up,  a  light 
flash  of  glad  welcor.ie  lit  me  clear  eyes. 

"  Late,  G^.Gion  ;  late  again.  1  wonder  if  you  ever  were  oi 
will  be  in  time  for  anything  in  your  life.  Any  man  who  wouid 
prove  himself  a  laggard  on  such  a  glorious  morning  deserves — 
what  does  he  deserve,  Captain  De  Vere  ?  " 

"The  lo^^  of  Miss  Dangerfield's  favor,  the  heaviest  loss  1 
know  of.  A  laggard  in  the  hunting  field  Mr.  Dantree  may  be» 
but  he  certainly  has  proven  himself  anything  but  a  laggard  in 
love." 

And  bowing  low  after  this  small  stab,  and  with  a  sarcastic 
curl  of  his  tawny-mustached  month,  the  captain  of  the  Plungers 
rode  away.  He  held  the  handsome,  silver-voiced,  oily-tongued 
Southerner  in  contempt  and  aversion — most  men  did — without 
exactly  knowing  why.  There  are  men  whom  men  like,  and 
men  whom  women  Uke,  and  Mr.  Dantree,  happily  for  hiiaseL^ 
vas  one  of  the  latter. 

A  loud  cry  of  "  there  they  come  *'  proclaimed  the  arrival  ol 
the  hounds.  The  huntsman  as  he  pasv-d  cast  suily  glances  t<* 
ward  Miss  Dangerficld  and  one  oi  two  other  mouil^ed  ladies, 
with  prophetic  visions  of  their  heading  the  fox,  and  being  in  the 
way.  The  hounds  v.'ere  put  into  the  gorse,  and  the  pink  cos.ts 
began  to  move  out  of  the  field  into  the  lane — Miss  Dangerfeld 
and  her  dark  lover  with  them. 

A  loud  "  Hallo  "  rang  slirilly  out,  the  hounds  caaae  with  a 


ntthing  roar  over  a  fence.     "  There  he  is  ! "  cried  a 


seore 


of 


wjiixa,  as  the  fox  flew  over  the  ground,  and  with  a  rinfing 
iifejKit  K^tHcriyte  Dsbr^^erfteld  flew  along  on  black  IldaaBo,  st^kd) 


\  \  \  \ 


COfr 


TtfF    THIRD    WARymC, 


53 


M  A  reck  and  upright  as  a  dart.  Her  brilliant  eye?  wc'tr  A»?S- 
inf  now  with  the  hunter's  fire — even  (iaston  Dantree  was  for 
gotteD.  The  roan  flew  along  helter-skelter  beside  lldeiim  foi 
a  few  minutes,  then  fell  hopelessly  behind.  Mr.  Dantree  counted 
neither  courage  nor  horsemanship  among  his  many  viitues.  On 
and  on  like  the  wind — Ilderim  flew  the  fences-  with  a  trenien- 
^fcng  rnsh  he  leaped  chasms  and  hedges,  his  dauntless  rider  tak 
ing  everything  before  her.  The  master  of  the  hounds  himsel) 
j0oked  at  her  in  a  glow  of  admiration — the  black  Arab  flew 
s»vcr  everjrthing,  scorning  to  turn  to  the  right  or  left,  and  after 
a  brilliant  burst  of  over  an  hour,  the  heiress  of  Scarswood  had 
the  triumph  and  delight  of  being  one  of  the  fortunate  few  in  at 
the  finish — in  time  to  see  the  dead  fox  held  over  the  huntsman's 
head  with  the  hounds  hanging  expectant  around.  She  laughed 
— eyes  and  teeth  flashing  daz/.lingly — as  she  received  the  brush 
from  the  huntsman,  and  the  mnumerable  compliments  from  the 
gentlemen  who  crowded  around  the  heroine  of  the  hour. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  **  I  can  ride — about  the  only  thing  I  can  do. 
No,  Mr.  Dantree,  1  do  not  want  a  com])]iment  from  you,  and  I 
can't  pay  one  either.  Your  roan  ballot'  shamefully,  and  you  are 
the  last  man  in.  But  to  be  late,  as  1  s^u('  >  -jfore,  on  all  occasions, 
is  your  noniial  state." 

"  Being  first  in  your  regards  I  can  bear  the  rest  with  i)hiloso- 
phy,  Miss  Dangerfield.  Fail  back  from  those  people,  and  rein 
In  that  black  whirlwind  of  yours,  and  ride  back  to  Langton 
Royals  with  me." 

She  looked  at  him  (juickly — some  tone  in  his  voice,  sonif 
iook  in  his  eyes  startled  her. 

"  Gaston,  something  has  happened  ! " 

"  Yes — nothing  to  be  alarmed  al)Out,  however.  Only  this — 
I  must  go  back  to  New  Orleans." 

«  Gaston  1 " 

It  was  a  sort  of  dismayed  cry.     If  he  had  ever 
^ower  over  her  he  would  have  been  reassured  now 
Ught  died  out  of  her  face  as  she  turned  to  hnn. 

"  Gro  back  to  New  Orleans  1     Why  shoukl  you  go  back  ? 
thought — " 

"  You  thought  I  was  never  to  go  back  any  more.  You  tliought 
this  sort  of  pleasant  existence — -driving,  hunting,  singing,  arul 
being  happy — taking  no  thought,  like  lilies  of  the  field,  etr. 
iras  to  go  on  forever.  My  dear  little  simple  Kathie  I  you  sceiii 
bo  forget  tkat  though  you  are  born  to  the  purple,  I  am  not.  Yo^j 
feegfct  tfiat  n>en  must  work  and  women  must  wsep.     Yof»  '* 


doubted  hia 
The  glad 


J 


i 


rfftt    TRIRD   WARtflNG, 


\\ 


ifii 


rthat  you  are  engaged  to  a  poor  beggar,  who  eaioa  hit  bread 
the  sweat  of  his  brow  or  his  brains.  You  forget  in  short  tliat 
I  ain  not  the  heiress  of  Scars  wood,  with  eight  thousand  per 
annum,  or  Ca])tain  De  Vere,  next  heir  to  a  j>eerage,  but  OasloM 
Dantree,  Bohemian,  literary  hack-- only  too  thankful  if  hia 
flimsics  for  the  New  Orleans  journals  pay  for  the  coat  he  wem 
and  the  bed  he  sleeps  on.  You  forget  that,  my  dear,  impeta- 
JUS  little  Rirl,  but,  by  Jove,  I  don't '.  " 

"  And  what's  aL  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?     Why  can't  thinn  go 
•B  as  they<are?     Why  can't  you  stop  at  Morecambe  until — ' 
Miss  Dangerfield  stopi>ed  abmptly. 

•*  Until  our  wedding  day  —is  that  what  you  mean,  Kathie  ? 
Ah  !  but  you  see  that  seems  such  a  very  indefinite  period- 
Mr.  Talbot  was  kind  enough  to  invite  me  to  run  down  to  his 
place  in  Sussex  for  a  week's  August  fishing,  and  I  was  to  repay 
his  hospitality  by  singing  songs.  August  has  passed,  Octo- 
ber is  here,  and — so  am  1  still.  And,  unfortunately,  singing 
is  such  an  unsubstantial  mode  of  payment,  even  the  finest 
tenor  voice  is  apt  to  pall  upon  a  Sussex  Stjuire,  after  three 
months'  incessant  listening  to  it.  I  had  a  letter  last  night 
from  New  Orleans — not  a  pleasant  letter — and  it  comes  to  one 
of  two  things  now,  either  to  go  back  to  l^ouisiana  and  resume 
my  quill  driving,  or — "  Mr.  Dan  tree  paused  and  looked  at  hei 
— "  <»r,"  he  repeated  with  that  smile  of  his,  the  baronefs  roman< 
tic  d;  ighter  thought  the  most  beautiful  on  earth — "  or  Kathie. ' 

"Yes,  Gaston?" 

"  Ot  you  must  marry  me  out  of  hand.  Do  yoa  hear,  Kathie) 
— take  me  for  better  or  worse,  and  support  nie  afterward 
Thaf  s  what  it  comes  to  in  plain  English.  One  may  be  in  lovt 
erer  so  deeply,  but  one  must  have  three  meals  per  diem  ar>4 

Cy  the  tailor  and  boot-maker.  I  have  just  money  enough  to 
(t  precisely  two  months  and  a  half — I've  been  totting  it  up. 
Aiter  that  the  work-house  stares  me  in  the  face.  I'll  defy  the 
minions  of  the  newspaper,  Kathie,  if  you  say  so,  and  I'll  go  to 
the  Castleford  Arms  and  wait  until  the  happy  day  comes,  that 
makes  you  all  my  own.  If  not — why  then — "  Mr.  Dantree 
paused  and  produced  his  cigar-case.  "  You'll  permit  me,  I 
know  Kathie?  You'ie  awiully  sensible  on  the  subject  ol 
cigars,  and  I've  been  thinking  so  deeply  ever  since  I  got  thai 
confounded  letter,  that  my  brain— such  as  it  is — is  daMced.  1 
need  a  smoke  to  support  me  under  all  this." 

Then  there  was  silence,  while  they  rode  ya  slowly  in  the 
pgg-  "*  «i»*  hooting  party — Mr^JHntree  philosophically  pi^ng 


\ 


:  me« 


rm  TftTMD  wjkkNrMQ, 


M 


hii  cigar,  and  Katherine,  her   cheeks  Hushed  with  reiT  v^ 
vonted  co^or,  and  lips  scaled  with  still  more  unwonted  «iicnce, 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  the  turrets  and  peaked  gables  of  T^Angton 
Royals  bore  in  sight,  "  1  don't  want  to  be  importunate,  my 
dear,  but  suspense  isn't  a  pleasant  thing.  When  a  man  if 
under  sentence,  ^he  sooner  he  hears  his  doom  and  knows  tilMi 
irorst,  the  better.  Am  I  to  go  to  New  Orleans,  to  risk  all  tluu 
mskj  come  to  part  us  forever,  or  am  1  to — " 

"  Stay,  Gaston  I " 

Mr.  Dantree  drew  a  long  breath  uf  great  relief.  For  one  vao- 
ment  he  had  doubted — for  one  agonizing  moment  the  eight  thou- 
•and  a  year  seemed  trembling  in  the  balance. 

"  My  loyal  little  girl !  1  shall  thank  you  for  this  when  two 
icore  people  are  not  looking  on.  I  am  to  stay  and  send  the 
New  Orleans  editors  au  diable,  and  the  wedding  day  will  be — 
when,  Kathie?  My  princely  fortune  will  keep  me  about  two 
months,  and  allow  me  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  I  suppose,  to  be 
made  happy  in.     When,  Kathie — when — when — when  ?  " 

"  Gaston,  I  don't  know.  It  is  so  horribly  sudden.  Good 
Heavens  I  only  two  months!     One  can't  prepare." 

"  Oh  yes,  one  can.  Import  the  trousseau  from  London  or 
Paria.  They'll  send  you  on  the  thousand  and  one  things  brides 
teem  to  require  in  a  week.  Be  rational,  Kathie  ;  that  objec^ 
tion  is  overruled.     Name  the  next." 

"  It  is  easily  named.     Papa  will  never  consent." 

"  Ah,  now  you  have  come  to  the  hitch  in  the  matter.  I  think 
it  very  likely  the  ancient  warrior  may  put  in  his  veto.  But  it 
is  for  you  to  overrule  that  You're  not  the  bright,  clever  little 
darling  I  ^ve  you  credit  fo*  if  you  can't  do  it  easily.  In  the 
bright  lexicon  of  ycuth,  you  know,  there's  no  such  word  as  fail. 
Vou  can  do  it,  and  you've  got  to  do  it  yourself,  by  Jove !  1 
fiu:ed  the  music  once,  and  I'd  rather  keep  my  countenance 
iverted  from  the  molody  for  the  future.  He  does  the  heavy 
Alther  to  perfection,  and  I  never  had  a  taste  for  private  theatricals. 
Suppose  I  spare  your  blushes,  and  fix  the  day  myself?  Sup* 
pose  I  select  New  Year's  eve  ?  We  couldn't  wind  up  the  old 
year  in  a  jollier  manner  than  by  being  married,  and  enjoying 
ourselves  in  Paris  for  the  rest  of  the  winter.  Come,  now,  ray 
darling,  don't  object.  Bring  the  noble  baronet  round  to  reasoo, 
and  make  your  Gaston  the  happ.est  man  on  chis  reeling  globe 
on  New  Year's  eve.  Quick — oin,  hang  him  1  Here  coqk^ 
De  Vsre.  Quick,  Kathie ;  yes  o*  no  ?  " 
Yea.- 


(I 


i  I 


just  had  time  to  Hutter  fortli  that  one  littlr  word,  irheii 
thfC  captain  of  the  Phingcrs  Purple  rode  up  on  his  gray  charget 
to  iolicit  the  s'tcond  waltz  at  the  ball  that  night. 

"  I  used  to  write  my  name  fiist  on  your  list,  Miss  Dangei* 
field/'  the  captain  said,  plaintively,  *•  but  all  thaf  s  over  now/* 
with  a  glance  at  Dantree  ;  *'  and  I  must  be  resided  to  my  fate 
of  Hccond  fiddle.  'Twaa  ever  thus,  etc.  1  trust  hunting  in  tbif 
^.lamp  air  has  not  impaired  your  voice  for  *  The  Wine  Cup  if 
tparkling,'  Mr.  Dantree  ?  " 

They  rode  on  to  Langton  Royals  together — Katherine  uno. 
oually  silent.  She  glanced  furtively  now  and  then  at  her  two 
cavaliers.  How  much  the  handsomer  her  lover  was.  Such 
easy,  negligent  grace  of  manner ;  how  well  he  talked ;  how 
well  he  sang ;  what  a  paragon  he  was  among  men.  What  a 
".ontrast  Randolf  Cromie  Algernon  De  Vere,  riding  beside  hira, 
was,  with  his  heavy,  llorid,  British  complexion,  his  ginger 
whiskers,  his  sleepy,  blue  eyes,  and  his  English  amiy  drawl 
He  was  the  son  of  a  dead  peer,  and  the  brother  of  a  live  one  ; 
but  his  nose  was  a  pug,  and  his  liands  and  feet  were  large,  and 
he  had  never  thought,  or  said,  or  done  a  clever  thing  in  his  life 

"  And  papa  wanted  me  to  marry  him  I "  Miss  DangerfieU 
thought,  with  unutterable  contempt ;  *'  after  seeing  (laston,  too  I 
How  impatient  he  is  to  have  our  wedding  day  firied — how  he 
«eems  to  dread  losmg  me.  And  people  call  him  mercenary 
fend  a  fortune-hunter.  I  shall  speak  to  papa  to-morrow,  and 
he  shall  consent.'' 

The  hunting  party  dined  at  Langton  Royals.  Miss  Danger 
field's  French  maid  had  come  over  from  Scarswood  with  hei 
young  lady's  ball  toilet,  and  when  Mr.  Dantree  entered  the 
brilliantly  lighted  ball-room  and  took  a  critical  survey  of  his 
affianced  wife,  he  was  forced  to  confess  that  great  happinesi 
made  the  dark,  sallow  heiress  of  Scarswood  very  nearly  hand 
«ome  She  wore — was  she  not  a  heroine  and  a  bride  elect  ?  — 
a  floating  filmy  robe  of  misty  white,  a  crown  of  dark  green  Iy) 
leaves  on  her  bright  chestnut  floating  hair — all  atwinkle  with  dia 
mond  dewdrops — her  white  shoulders  rose  exquisitely  out  of  tl\e 
foamy  lace — her  great,  brilliant  eyes  had  a  streaming  light,  m 
feint  flush  kindled  her  dusk  cheeks. 

"  Have  you  noticed  the  little  Dangerfield,  Talbot  ? "  Cap 
tain  De  Vere  remarked  to  his  friend,  the  Squire  ^^f  Morecambe 
**  She's  in  great  feather  tonight,  growing  positively  good-lotJ^ 
hag,  you  know.  See  how  she  smiles  on  that  shrewd  little  fellow. 
pifi^ree.     Why  can't  we  all  be  born  with  Grecian  profiles  and 


TH&    THIRD   WAJtNISG.  |^ 

vMces  ?  Seeias  a  pity  too  she  should  be  thrown  avmy 
on  a  cm)  like  that — such  a  tnitiip  of  a  girl  as  she  is,  and  tuch  f 
walUef.  lA>ok  at  her  now  lloating  away  with  him.  Cle&rctt 
case  of  s|>oons  I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 

Captain  De  Vere  leaned  against  a  pillar,  pulled  nis  leonine 
mustache,  and  watched  Miss  Dangerfield  and  her  lover  circling 
ilown  the  long  room  with  gloomy  eyes.  It  would  have  been 
contrary  to  all  the  principles  of  his  life  to  fall  in  love — it  wai 
the  proud  boast  of  the  Plungers  that  they  never  were  guilty  oj 
that  weakness,  but  still-  oh,  hang  it  all  1  Wliy  couldn't  that 
fellow  keep  his  confoundedly  handsome  face  and  diabolically 
musical  voice  for  transatlantir:  heiresses,  and  not  come  poach- 
ing on  }5ritish  manors?  Why  couldn't  he  marry  a  Yankee 
wife,  who  talked  through  her  nose,  and  whose  father  had 
amassed  a  fortune  selling  groceries,  ai\d  not  mix  the  best  blood 
In  Sussex  with  the  j)lebeian  ])U(lillc  in  hi»>  veins?  Why 
couldn't  she  keep  tme  to  her  order?  why  didn't  Sir  John 
kick  the  fellow  downstairs  when  he  had  the  audacity  to  demand 
his  daughter's  hand  ?  Sir  John,  the  j)roudest  old  martinet  in  the 
army.  A  fine  precedent  to  be  set  tu  the  daughters  of  the 
county  gentry — the  son  of  a  Yankee  butcher  or  blacksmith 
lording  it  in  Scarswood  and  taking  his  place  among  the  patri- 
cians of  Sussex,  with  the  best  blood  in  England  in  their  veins, 
and  an  ancestry  that  ran  back  to  the  conquest  and  Norman 
William. 

"And  the  cad's  a  scoundrel,  besides,"  the  captain  thougti^ 
glowering  wiih  human  ferocity  ;  "  vain  as  a  woman  of  his  pretty 
Cace  and  voice,  with  no  more  affection  for  that  sentimen- 
tal, hero-woi  jhiping  little  girl  of  seventeen  than  /  have — not 
half  so  much,  by  George  !  She'll  marry  him  and  come  to  grief 
— the  worst  sort — mark  my  words  ! " 

The  first  waltz  ended,  the  captain's  turn  came.  TheunufuaJl 
exertion  of  thinking  had  fatigued  the  young  officer's  intellect; 
he  physical  exertion  of  waltzing  with  Miss.  Dangerfield  would 
counteract  it  And  Miss  Dangerfield  was  such  a  capital  dancer, 
■hch  a  jolly  little  girl  every  wMy  jou  took  her  1  How  she 
laughed,  how  she  talked,  what  a  clear,  sweet,  fresh,  youi^ 
voice  she  had,  how  bright  were  her  eyes,  how  luxurious  hci 
brown,  waving  hair, — not  pretty,  you  know,  like  half  the  other 
girls  in  the  room,  with  wax-work  faces  and  china-blue  eyes,  but 
twice  as  attractive  as  the  prettiest  of  them — one  of  those  girli 
whom  men  look  after  on  the  street,  and  ask  their  names — 
A  aben  wi^  a  sallow  complexion  anr^  rv^'s  '>f  starry  luster-^ 


'* 


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||  TMM   THIRD  WAMNIHG, 

*'Sm^»  got  brtini,  moA  the  rest  hare  beaatj — I  lappow 
A»f  I  about  it — and  beauty  and  brains  nerer  travel  in  companf. 
She  is  far  the  cleverest  little  girl  of  my  acquaintance,  and,  il 
voa  notice,  it's  always  your  clever  women  who  marry  good* 
KMAing  fools.  Egad !  I  wish  I  had  proposed  for  her  myseU 
Marriage  is  an  institution  I'm  opposed  to  on  principliu 
'  Britons  never  shall  be  slaves,'  and  so  forth — and  what's  yoai 
married  man  but  the  most  abject  of  slaves  ?  I  believe  I've  been 
hi  love  with  her  all  along  and  never  knew  it  '  How  blessing* 
bri^ten  as  they  take  their  flight ! '  When  I  could  have  haid 
her  I  didn't  want  her ;  when  I  can't  have  her,  I  do." 

'*  Oh  1 "  Katherine  sighed,  in  ecstasy,  "  that  was  a  deliciotu 
waltz  I  I  was  bom  to  be  a  ballet-dancer,  I  beUeve — I  could 
keep  on  forever.  Captain  De  Vere,  you're  the  first  heavy 
dragoon  I  ever  knew  who  didn't  disgrace  himself  and  his  part- 
ner when  he  attempted  round  dances.  Is  that  Mr.  Dantree 
singing  in  the  music-room  ?  Yes,  it  is ;  and  you  have  a  soul 
attuned  to  the  magic  of  sweet  sounds — don't  say  no  \  I'm  sure 
you  have — so  have  I ;  come  I  " 

Yes,  Mr.  Dantree  was  singing ;  that  is  what  he  was  there 
for ;  his  voice  for  the  past  ten  years  had  been  the  open 
sesame  that  threw  wide  the  most  aristocratic  portals,  where  else 
he  kad  never  set  foot.  A  little  group  of  music  lovers  were  around 
him,  drinking  in  the  melody  of  that  most  charming  voice.  Mi 
Dantree  was  in  his  element — he  always  was  when  surrounded 
by  an  admiring  crowd.  This  song  was  a  Tyrolean  warble,  and 
the  singer  looked  more  like  an  angel  than  ever,  in  a  white 
waistcoat  and  tail  coat 

"  May  Old  Nick  fly  away  with  him ! "  growled  Captain  De 
Vere,  inwardly,  "  and  his  classic  countenance,  and  Mario  voice  1 
Hliat  a  blessing  to  society  if  he  became  a  victim  to  small-poi 
and  chronic  bronchitis !  It's  no  wonder,  after  all,  that  little 
Kjithie,  a  t>eauty-worshiper  by  nature,  is  infatuated.  Well,  my 
man,  what  is  it  ?  " 

For  a  six-foot  specter,  in  plush  and  knee-breeches,  had 
appeared  suddenly,  and  stood  bowing  before  them. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  capting — it's  Miss  Dangerfield's  maid 
M  wishes  to  speak  to  Miss  Dangerheld  for  a  hinstant,  hH 
hagree«ble." 

"  Ninon  I  "  said  Katherine — *'  what  does  she  want  ? — where 
Il  she  ?    Oh,  I  see  her  1     Excuse  me  a  moment,  Captain  De 


ft 


THE   THIRD   WARNING. 


had 


Hm  French  niaid  was  standing  just  outside  the  door  of  the 
oraiic  room,  holding  a  small  white  parcel  in  her  hand. 

**  Well,  child,"  her  mistress  said,  impatiently — the  little  Fzenck 
|irl  wit  five  years  her  senior — **  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

*'  Iff  this  packet,  mademoiselle  ;  John  Thomas  found  it  oc 
(he  floor  of  the  gentleman's  cloak  room,  and  he  thinks  it  l» 
bogs  to  Mr.  Dantree." 

**  Indeed  1     And  why  does  John  Thomas  think  so  ?  " 

"  Because,  mademoiselle,  it  is  addressed  to  New  Orleaat. 
^^  mademoiselle  please  to  take  it  and  look  ?  " 

Katherine  took  the  little  white  package  and  looked  at  ihi 
■ddrea.    Yet,  beyond  doubt,  it  was  Gaston's  hand. 

**  Mlk.  Maux  Db  Lansac, 

"Riiede  » 

"NewOrlMM." 

There  waa  a  moment's  pause.  The  girl  stood  expectant- -^ 
the  jroang  lady  stood  holding  the  package  in  her  hand,  looking 
itrangely  at  the  address.  It  was  Gaston's  writing,  no  doubt 
at  all  about  that ;  and  who  was  "  Mile.  Marie  De  Lansac,"  of 
New  Orleans,  and  what  did  this  package  contain  ?  Letters, 
turely — ^and  this  hard,  cardlike  substance,  a  photograph  no 
doubt  Mr.  Dantree  had  told  her  his  whole  history  as  slie  sup- 
posed, but  no  chapter  headed  *'  Marie  De  Lansac "  had  ap 
peared.  And  as  Katherine  stood  and  looked,  her  lips  set  them 
teWes  in  a  rigid  line,  and  a  light  not  usually  there,  nor  pleat 
ant  to  tee,  came  into  her  gray  eyes — the  green  light  of  jealouty. 

*'  Thit  package  belongs  to  Mr.  Dantree,  Ninon ;  John  Thomai 
wat  quite  right.  Here,  tell  him  to — or  no,"  abruptly,  **rU 
give  it  to  Mr.  Dantree  myself" 

The  package  was  small,  her  hand  closed  firmly  over  it,  as 
she  walked  back  to  the  music  room.  Mr.  Dantree  had  jntt 
finithed  his  Tyrolean  chorus,  and  was  smiling  and  gracioutl| 
jreceiving  compliments.  He  made  his  way  to  Katherine' i  ads 
and  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm,  as  one  who  had  the  right 

''My  dear  child,"  he  said,  "what  has  happened  now? 
why,  oh  why,  that  face  of  owl-like  solemnity  1  VVhat't  goBC 
wrong?" 

The  large,  cryital-dear,  honest  gray  eyet  were  fixed  on  oil 
iKe,  keenly. 

"  Yet,  my  love,"  he  said,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

*'GMtoD  I"  abruptly  and  with  eneqif,  **did  you  evei  c«0  i 


I! 


ii 


I 


roe  THE    THIKD    WARNING 

"Hundreds,    iny   datling,"    responded   Mr.    Dwitree,  witii 
promptitude  ;  *' thousands,  millions,  and  likely  to  do  so  sgaic 
What  an  absurd  question  I     Did  1  ever  tell  a  lie  ?     It  soundi 
tike  the  catechism.     As  if  any  man  or  woman  lived  who  didfih 
teU  Uea  I " 

*'  Speak  for  yourself,"  the  girl  said,  coldly  ;  **  /  don't  and  I 
aiui  t  ooEceive  of  any  man  or  woman  of  honor  doing  so.  Yon 
let  Captain  De  Vrrs  there?" 

^  rm  thankful  to  say  I  do  not  at  this  moment — military 
i^ppyl" 

"  Military  puppy  he  may  be — falsehood-teller,  I  know  he  ii 
«lot ;  he  is  incapable  of  falsehood,  dishonor,  or  deceit." 

"  I-iike  the  hero  of  a  woman's  novel,  in  short,"  sneered  Gas- 
ton Dantree,  "without  fear  and  without  rejiroach.  My  dear 
4'hild,  men  and  women  who  never  tell  lies  exist  in  books  'written 
»rith  a  purpose,'  and  nowhere  else.  But  what  are  you  driving 
ftt,  my  severe  little  counsel  tor  the  prosecution  ?  Lef  s  have  it 
vithout  further  preface." 

"  You  shall,  Mr.  Dantree.      Who  is  Marie  De  l^ansac  ?  " 

Mr.  Dantree  was  past-master  of  the  polite  art  of  dissimula 
tion  ;  no  young  duke  born  to  the  strawberry-leaf  coronet  coulj 
be  more  unaffectedly  nonchalant  than  he.  His  handsome  olive 
face  was  a  mask  that  never  betrayed  him.  And  now,  with  a 
■tait  so  slight  as  to  be  scarcely  perceptible,  with  so  faint  a  pal- 
ing of  the  dark  face  that  she  failed  to  see  it,  he  turned  to  her, 
ulm  and  cool  as  ever. 

"  Marie  De  Lansac  ?  Well,  i  know  a  young  lady  of  that 
Dame  in  New  Orleans.  Who  is  she,  you  ask  ?  She's  grand- 
daughter of  a  French  gentleman  of  that  city,  and  I  gave  her 
singing  lessons  once  upon  a  time.  My  dear  little  Kathie,  dotii 
annihilate  me  with  those  flashing  gray  eyes  of  yours.  There 
im't  any  harm  in  that,  is  there  ?  There's  no  need  of  the  green- 
xycd  monster  showing  hi^  obnoxious  claws." 

He  met  her  suspicious  gaze  full,  and  discovered  for  the  first 
stme  what  »n  intensely  proud  and  jealous  nature  he  had  to  deal 
irith.  He  was  chill  with  undefined  fear,  but  he  smiled  down 
in  her  face  now  with  eyes  as  clear  and  innocent  as  the  eyes  of 
a  child. 

''  Is  this  all  ?  "  she  asked,  slowly  ;  '  or  is  it  only  one  of  th* 
Bainy  lies  )  ou  find  it  so  necessary  to  tell  ?  " 

'*  On  my  honor,  no ;  it  is  the  truth  ;  as  if  I  could  speak  anv 
diing  else  to  yoo.  But  how,  in  Heavon's  name,  Kathie,  ^ 
yen  ev«r  h«if  of  M«rie  De  I^n«(ar  ?  " 


flii 


THE    TfTIRD   WARNII^G. 


f«t 


of  thr 


She  did  not  reply ;  she  still  held  the  pa<;k&gc  ;  she  still  loobs< 
%X  him  distrustfully. 

"  You  gave  her  singing  lessons,  this  Mi&s  De  Lansar  ?  * 
ilowly.     '*  She  is  young,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"She  is." 

*'  Handsome,  no  do^ibt  ?  " 

"Well,  yes,  she  is  handsome — not  the  ctyie  /  aduufe,. 
though." 

"Never  mind  your  style — you  admire  nothing  but  plaiiv 
young  women  with  sallow  skins  and  irregular  features — that  is 
understood.  Mr.  Dan  tree,  do  you  correspond  with  this  young 
lady?" 

"  Certainly  not.     Katherine,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

The  careless  look  had  left  h'l  face,  the  pallor  had  deepened. 
Who  had  been  talking  to  her — what  had  she  found  out  ?  Goo<i 
Heavens !  to  have  eight  thousand  a  year  quivering  in  the  bal 
ance  like  this. 

**  What  I  mean  is  this,  Mr.  Dantree.  This  s  your  writing, 
I  believe,  and  I  infer  you  are  returning  Miss  De  Lansac's  let> 
ter«  and  picture.  This  packet  fell  out  of  your  coat-pocket  in 
the  cloak-room.  You  never  corresi)onded  with  Miss  De  Lan 
sac — you  only  gave  her  singing  lessons  ?  That  will  do,  Mr. 
Dantree — don't  tell  any  more  falsehoods  than  you  can  help." 

Skie  placed  the  packet  in  his  hand.  He  had  never  thought 
of  that  His  face  changed  as  she  looked  at  him  for  a  moment. 
In  spite  of  the  admirable  training  of  his  life  he  stood  before  hei 
dumb—condemned  out  of  his  own  mouth. 

The  steady,  strong  gray  eyes  never  left  his  face — her  own 
was  quite  colorless  now. 

"  Not  one  word,"  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  whisper ;  "  and  look 
at  him.  It  is  true,  then — all  they  have  said.  He  is  false— 
fidse!" 

"  I  am  not  false  ! "  Mr.  Dantree  retorted,  angrily.  "  Don" 
be  so  readv  to  condemn  unheard.  If  you  will  do  me  the  hone? 
10  listen,  I  can  explain," 

She  laughed  contemptuously. 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  Mr.  Dantree  !     Vou  could  explain  black 

wai  white  if  one  listened  to  you  long  enough.     I'm  afraid  I 

have  listened  to  you  too  long  already.     How  many  of  the  mil 

Uah  lies  y*^'  "^e  in  the  habit  of  telling  have  you  lold  me?" 

X^  one — not  the  shadow  of  one  I     For  shame,  Katif%r 

I  to  taunt  me  with  idle  words  bjjuken  in  jeal.     i  havi-  .... 


' 


f<y. 


'«?  th.'*  rruth  coprerrit')  Vliss 


-  ♦.' 


utt- 


I! 


100 


TUt    THIRD  WARNIHG. 


.fil 


•I     '  V 


•o  itf  as  I  am  concerned.     1  gave  her  music  lessons-  -I  Bercf 
cared  for  her — no,  Katherine,  not  one  jot — but  she — thai  is— 

■he — oh,  it  IS  quite  impossible  to  explain  ! " 

"She  fell  in  love  with  you  !  is  that  what  your  modesty  wiii 
not  permit  you  to  say,  Mr.  Dantree  ?     She  fell  in  love-— thi? 
poor  Miss   De   Lansac — with  her  handsome  singing-ma^ ci 
whether  he  would  or  no  ?" 

"Yes,  then!"  Gaston  Dantree  said,  folding  his  arms  ari!<j 
looking  at  her  with  sulky  defiance,  "since  you  make  me  say  it 
Think  me  a  coxcomb,  a  puppy,  if  you  will,  but  she  did  fall  ii 
love  with  me,  and  she  did  write  to  me,  since  1  left  New  Orleans 
I  never  answered  those  letters.  1  told  you  the  truth  when  1 
vud  I  did  not  correspond  with  her.  Last  night  I  came  across 
them  by  chance,  and  as  your  plighted  husband  I  felt  I  had  nc 
right  even  to  keep  them  longer.  1  made  them  up  as  you  see, 
IJ  return  to  her,  feeling  sure  that  after  tJiat^  she  would  nevei 
address  me  again.  I  never  told  you  of  her — why  shouk;!  •  ? 
She  was  simply  nothi»ig  to  me,  and  to  tell  you  that  a  young  la<ly 
of  New  Orleans  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  wrote  me  letters, 
would  not  be  very  creditable  to  me." 

And  then  Mr.  Dantree  paused — still  standing  with  folded 
aims — posing  beautifully  for  a  model  of  wounded  pride. 

She  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  And  this  is  all  ?  "  she  said,  slowly. 

"All,  Miss  Dangcrficld — on  my  sacred  honor  I" 

*  If  I  could  only  think  so  1     If  I  only  dared  believe  you  1 " 

"  You  are  complimentary,  Katherine  !     When  you  doubt  my 
word  like  this  it  is  high  time  for  us  to  part." 

He  knew  her  well  —how  to  stab  most  surely. 

"  Part ! "  her  sensitive  lips  quivered.     "  How  lightly  he  talks 
of  parting  !     Gaston  !  you  see — I  love  you  wholly — I  trust  you 
entirely.     You  are  so  dear  to  J'ne,  tliat  the  bare  thought  of  anj 
other  having  a  claim  on  you,  be  it  ever  so  light,  is  unendurable 
Will  you  swear  to  me  that  this  is  true  ?  " 

He  lifted  his  arm — it  gave  the  oath  proper  stage  effect 

"  By  all  I  hold  sacred,  I  swear  it,  Katherine  ! " 

It  was  not  a  very  binding  oath — there  was  nothing  on  tl»^ 
earth  below,  or  the  sky  above,  that  Mr.  (iaston  Dantree  helc 
sacred.  But  it  is  easy  to  believe  what  we  most  want  to  believe 
As  the  old  Latin  saw  has  it,  **  The  (iuarreling  of  lovers  was  the 
•renewing  of  love,"  Mr.  Dantree  and  Miss  Dangerfield  kept 
ievotedly  together  for  the  rest  of  the  night,  and  peace  smiled 
^^am,  but  th«  *' cloud  no  bigijer  than  a  man's  hand"  had  riseii 


TME   TKIRD  fVAXNli^G. 


los 


-I  DfiTCS 

hal  i»- 

esly  wil 
ve--thi» 

nns  arKi 
le  say  it 
id  fall  ii 
Orleans 
when  1 
e  acro&s 
I  had  nc 
you  see, 
lid  nevei 
lou'.^  >  ? 
ung  lady 
;  letters, 

h  folded 
p. 


e  you  I " 
loubt  nay 


hetaJki 
rust  yot] 
It  of  any 
durable 

ect 

g  on  X\»9 
ree  helfl 
believe 
was  the 
sld  kept 
smiled 
ad  risen 


dMU  iru  ipecdily  to  darken  all  the  sky.  Katherine's  peTfec*^ 
trust  was  gone — gone  forever.  "  Had  he  told  her  the  truth,  or 
was  it  all  a  tissue  of  falsehoods  ?     Had  another  woman  a  cl 


upon  hiiD»  anJ  was  it  her  fortune  he  loved,  as  everybody  said — 
not  herself?  ' 

"  And,  powers  above  ! "  thought  Mr.  Dantree ;  "  what  am  I 
to  do  with  a  jealous,  exacting  \^fe  ?  What  a  savage  look  there 
was  in  her  eyes  for  one  moment ;  the  Dangerfields  were  ever 
•I  bitter,  bad  race.  A  game  where  two  women  claim  one 
Man  must  be  a  losing  game  for  the  man  in  the  end.  I  begia 
to  tee  that" 

At  five  in  the  morning  the  ball  at  Langton  Royals  broke  up. 
Miss  Dangerfield  was  driven  home  through  the  cold  blacknesi 
that  precedes  the  dawn,  shivering  in  her  furred  wraps.  She 
toiled  slowly  and  wearily  upstairs.  She  had  danced  a  great 
deal,  and  was  tired  to  death.  She  had  been  in  wild  spirits 
^he  first  half  the  night,  now  the  reaction  had  come,  and  she 
looked  haggard  and  hollow-eyed,  as  she  ascended  to  her 
room. 

It  was  all  bright  in  that  sanctuary  of  maidenhood.  A  genial 
fire  blazed  on  the  hearth,  her  little,  white  bed,  with  its  lace  and 
silken  draperies  and  plump,  white  pillows  looked  temptingly 
cosey.  A  softly  cushioned  sleepy  hollow  of  an  easv  chair  was 
drawn  up  before  the  fire.  Katherine  flung  herself  mto  it  with 
a  tifed  sigh. 

"  It  is  good  to  be  home,"  she  said.  "  Take  oflf  these  tire- 
some things,  Ninon — quick — and  go." 

The  deft-fingered  French  girl  obeyed.  The  floating,  brown 
hair  was  brushed  and  bound  for  the  pillow,  the  lace  and  tulle, 
the  silk  and  diamond  sprays  were  removed,  and  her  night-robe 
ionned,  and  Katherine  thrust  her  feet  in  slippers,  and  drew  her 
Quur  closer  to  the  fire. 

"  Anything  more,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Ninon  ;  you  may  go." 

The  maid  went,  and  the  heiress  was  alone.  She  felt  tired  and 
iic>epy  and  out  of  sorts,  but  ttul  she  did  not  go  to  bed.  She  lay 
^ck  in  her  chair  and  listened  to  the  bleak  morning  wind  howl 
ng  through  the  trees  of  the  parlv,  with  closed,  tired  eyes. 

'*  Marie  De  Lansac  !     Marie  De  I.ansac  ! "     She  seemed  to 
hear  that  name  in  the  wailing  of  the  wind,  in  the  ticking  of  the 
little  Swiss  clock,  in  the  light  fall  of  the  cinders,  and,  with  • 
rinsfioie  still  in  her  ears,  she  dropped  asleep. 

Ana  slficptt^g^  she  dreamed.     She  was  flpaling  Bottv^^S^^K 


KH 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING, 


s     ;■•  fi 


I  i' 


:r 


!! 


;! 


donn  A  warm,  golden  river,  overhead  a  sunlit,  rosy  skjr,  all  A  /• 
air  quivering  with  music.  And  as  she  floated  on  and  on  in  t 
delicious  trance  she  saw  the  gt.lden  sky  blacken,  she  heard  the 
winds  rise,  and  the  river  darken  and  heave.  Tite  inusic  changed 
to  the  wild  song  of  a  siren,  hiring  her  on  to  the  black  depthf 
below.  Down,  down  she  felt  herself  sinking,  the  cold  water 
closing  over  her  head.  She  looked  uj)  in  her  death  agOD> 
and  saw  her  lover  standing  safe  on  the  shore  and  smiling  a 
her  throes.     She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him. 

"'  Help,  Gaston,  help  ! "  siie  stiove  to  cry,  but  the  rising 
waters  drowned  her  voice,  and  tlie  shrill  wind  bore  them  away. 
The  siren  song  grew  louder.  She  coiikl  hear  the  words,  "  False 
as  fair !  false  as  fair  ! "  And  still  the  waters  rose.  The  wrate 
arms  wreathed  round  her  lover—  standing  smiling  there — a 
beautiful,  deriding  face  mocked  her  over  his  shoulder. 

"1  am  Marie  De  i>ansac/'  said  the  taunting  voice,  "and  he 
is  mine." 

Then  the  bitter  waters  of  death  closed  over  her  head,  and 
with  a  gasping  cry  she  started  up  awake — the  fatal  words  yel 
ringing  m  her  ears,  '*  False  as  fair  !  false  as  fair  I " 

The  chill,  gray  light  of  the  October  dawn  filled  the  room, 
the  fire  had  died  out  black  on  the  hearth,  and  she  was  cramped 
and  cold.  Even  in  her  dreams  that  warning  came  to  her  I 
She  drew  ^ut  her  watch  and  looked  at  the  hour.  Only  seves, 
but  Katharine  Dangertield  slept  no  more. 


CHAPTER  X. 


PBFORB   THK    WEDDZNa 


lARRIED  on  New  Year's  Eve  f  Married  on  New 
Year's  Eve,  Katherine  !  Do  I  hear  you  aright  ?  Ift 
it  possible  you  really  mean  this  ?  " 

Sir  John  Dangerfield,  seated  in  dressing  gown  and 
slippers  before  the  study  fire,  laid  down  his  Times^  and 
blankly  asked  this  question.  His  daughter  stood  behind  his 
chair,  keeping  her  face  steadily  averted. 

*  Let  me  look  at  you,  child — come  here.     Lei  me  see  if 
'^ns  Iff  my  tftlle  Kathie  wh(.>  sang  hor  doU  to  sleep  yesterday. 


I 


BMi^^ltP    Tfff     ^El^f^tNG 


105 


»n  in  » 
ird  the 

depth? 
watei  < 
agony 

iling  a 

risintf 
I  away 
*  False 
5  wiiite 
lere — a 

and  he 

id,  and 
irds  yet 

room, 
ramped 
:o  hert 

gevcB, 


New 

It?     Ik 

vn  and 
rx,  and 
ind  his 

\  see  ii 
»lerdAy. 


4j)d  who  comes  to  me  now  and  asks  tc  he  mameii  on  New 
dear's  Day.    Ah,  you  cannot— yt>ii  do  not  mean  it  after  alL" 

"Papa,  1  do,"  Kathcrine  ciitd,  dcbpcratt-ly,  fcelin»  again 
what  a  cruel  thing  it  had  l)ccn  of  Gaston  to  subject  her  to  tliin 
ordeal;  "at  least  I  don't,  but  he — that  is — oh,  papa,  I  havv 
explained  already." 

"You  have  repeated  Mr.  Oaston  Dantrec's  plausible  pre- 
texts, of  which  1  don't  believe  one  word.  He  dared  neJ 
lM:e  vciz  again ;  he  ordered  you  to  come  to  me  and  obtain 
my  consent  to  your  marriage  on  New  Year's  Eve.  Coward  I 
craven  coward ! " 

"  Papa,  don't.  You  misjudge  him — he  is  no  coward — even 
you  have  no  right  to  call  him  so.  Oh,  papa,  how  can  you 
be  so  unkind  to  him,  to  mo.  You  were  so  harsh  to  hini 
when  he  spoke  to  you  before,  and  you  knew  he  would  not, 
could  not  retort  in  kind.  You  wouldn't  like  it  yourself — to 
sit  still  and  be  abused.  You  must  not  call  Gaston  such  hard 
names.     Even  from  you  1  cannot  bear  it." 

But  in  the  depths  of  her  heart,  even  while  she  fought  des- 
perately  for  her  absent  lover^  she  felt  it  to  be  true.  He  was  a 
coward. 

"Hear  her,"  the  baronet  said,  with  suppressed  intensit)'; 
"hear  her  take  his  part  against  me — this  man  whom  she  has 
not  known  two  months.  Well,  well,  it  is  the  reward  the  old 
always  receive  from  the  young." 

Two  white  arms  clasped  his  neck,  two  impetuous  lips  stooptid 
down  and  kissed  him. 

"Papa,  darling,  is  it  generous  of  you  to  say  this?     Yc«i 
know  I  love  you  dearly,  dearly ;   but,  papa,  1  love  him  tot 
I  can't  help  it ;  I  don't  know  why  ;  I  only  know  I  do  with  ai4 
my  heart." 

He  looked  at  her  tenderly — the  hard  bitterness  of  his  moutl^ 
fvlaxing  into  a  smile,  half-sad,  half-cynical. 

"  My  little  one,"  he  said,  "  my  little  one,  you  don't  knew 
why.  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  A  little  for  his  dark  eyes,  a  little  foi 
his  silken  hair,  a  little  for  his  seductive  voice  and  sugary  words, 
and  a  great  deal— oh,  my  romantic  Kalhie — for  your  own 
poetical  imagination.  If  you  saw  Gaston  Dantree  below  the 
surf^e  for  an  hour  you  would  scorn  him  your  life  long.  But 
you  take  this  good-looking  Lousianian  at  his  own  valuation, 
and  invest  him  with  a  halo  of  nobility  all  your  own,  and  set 
him  up  and  worship  him.  M/  daughter,  take  care,  take  care. 
Vow  god  will  crumble  to  clay  before  your  eyes ;  and  what  is 


fo6 


ftpFORF  TffF  wrnnrj^o 


l«ft  then?  Believe  me,  little  Kathie,  there  is  more  needed  te 
make  a  wife  happy  than  lung  lashes  and  a  musical  \oice/' 

Kathcrine  looked  up  and  met  her  father's  eyes  full  for  the 
irst  tun«)  her  lips  compressed  into  a  resolute  line.  An  bom 
tgo  she  had  seemed  to  him  a  wayward  little  girl — he  knew  now, 
for  the  first  time,  he  had  a  woman  to  deal  with — a  woman  in 
love,  and  resolute  to  have  her  way. 

'*  You  treat  me  as  though  I  were  ten  years  old  and  asking  a 
new  plaything.  Papa,  I  love  Gaston,  I.e  wants  me  to  be  his 
wife,  and  1  have  promised.  A  promise  given  should  be  a 
promise  kept.  I  will  marry  him,  or  go  to  my  grave  unmar- 
ried." 

"  Then  Heaven  help  you  !  My  years  on  earth  will  not  be 
many— don't  interrupt  me,  Katherine;  I  know  what  I  am 
saying — and  when  I  am  gone,  and  you  are  left  to  that  man's 
mercy,  I  say  again  Heaven  help  you  ! " 

"  He  has  given  you  no  earthly  reason  to  say  it  1 "  Katherine 
exclaimed,  "  and  it  is  not  like  you  to  be  unjust.  It  is  a  shame, 
papa !  a  shame !  You  know  nothing  wrong  of  him — nothing. 
Even  the  grim,  pitiless  English  law  tc  kcsthe  prisoner  in  the  dock 
to  be  innocent  until  he  is  proven  guilty.  You  speak  of  him 
as  though  he  \  ere  a  villain,  double-dyed !  I  repeat,  it  is  a 
shame  to  slander  the  absent  in  this  way,  and  a  soldier  who  has 
fought  for  his  country,  as  you  have,  ought  to  be  the  last  to  do 
it.  You  wrote  to  New  Orleans  to  find  out  his  character — did 
the  answer  justify  such  dark  suspicions  as  these  ?  " 

"  The  answer  left  me  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever.  Mr. 
Dantree's  character  in  New  Orleans  is  simply  nil — no  one 
knew  anything  much  either  to  his  credit  or  discredit.  You 
defend  your  lover  stanchly,  Katherine.  I  don't  think  the 
worse  of  you  for  it,  but  it  won't  do.  Even  you,  my  child,  elo- 
quent as  you  are,  with  all  your  special  pleading,  cannot  make 
A  hero  of  Gaston  Dantree." 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  a  hero  of  him ;  he  suits  me  well 
enough  as  he  is.  As  he  is,  with  all  his  faults,  whatever  they 
mav  be,  I  am  willing  to  lake  him — to  hold  to  him  all  my  life; 
and  be  very  sure,  whatever  that  life  may  prove,  no  one  alive 
shall  ever  hear  me  complain  of  him." 

"  I  believe  you,"  her  father  said,  quietly ,  "  you're  not  a 
modeS  young  lady  by  any  means,  but  you  deserve  a  much 
better  husband  than  Gaston  Dantree.  Child  !  child  !  you  arc 
hopelessly  infatuated — I  might  as  well  talk  to  the  trees  waving 
ponder  outside  the  window  as  to  a  romantic  ^1  in  love      But 


MUFlfF    TfTF    WFnnif^n 


lO? 


Mr. 
one 
You 
the 
elo- 
make 


iUBk  a  HMinent — think  now  htlie  you  know  of  this  iiiatt. 
Who  if  to  provt  he  hasn  t  a  wifo  alioa<!)  <n;t  yonder  in  thf 
Soathem  States  ?  " 

••Papa!"  But  there  was  a  sharp,  snddci.  pang  in  hei 
voice  as  she  uttered  the  mdignaiU  crv  '•  Mar  if  De  fjit%sac  !* 
the  name  that  had  hauniedher  dream  that  motiving  c\x\\\z  bade. 

"Ah  !  Kathie,  Hying  inio  a  pas>ion  will  nol  ^nove  his  woilk, 
I  repeat,  we  know  nothing  of  him — nothing  bul  what  he  hi: 
chosen  to  tell  or  invent.  Do  you  really  believe,  my  fK)or 
Donna  Quixote,  that  if  some  freak  of  fortune  deprived  yoc 
to-morroi^  of  Scarswood  and  its  rent-roll,  he  would  [)rove  faith- 
fell  to  the  lOve  he  has  vowed  ?  if  you  ^Kti^  [)enni\ess — as  he  ii 
—do  you  believe  he  would  ever  make  you  his  wife?" 

She  met  his  sad  gaze,  full ;  but  she  was  white  to  the  lips. 

"  I  believe  it,  pajia.  I  know  how  1  would  act  by  hhn  ; 
poverty — disgrace  even — would  only  make  me  clinj'  the  more 
devotedly  to  him.  1  would  take  his  part  against  all  the  world, 
and  why  should  1  think  \\\u\  the  less  generous?  Papa,  it 
may  be  your  duty,  but  you  torture  me  !  What  is  the  use  of  say- 
ing such  things  except  to  make  me  miserable  ?  " 

But  it  was  not  her  father' <=  words  that  made  her  miserable — 
it  was  the  doubt  in  her  own  heart,  the  conviction  that  he 
spoke  the  truth.  Not  all  her  insane  mfatuation  could  con- 
vince her  that  this  man  was  either  loyal  or  true.  She  had  been 
brought  up  in  a  peculiar  way  enough,  this  impulsive  Katherine, 
and  if  there  is  any  excuse  to  bo  made  for  her  willful  perversity, 
it  lies  in  that.  Motherless  at  the  age  of  three,  left  to  a  dolmg 
father,  spoiled  by  Indian  nurses,  indulged  in  every  caprice, 
she  had  grown  up  headstxcng  and  full  of  faults.  The  Indian 
colonel  had  taught  her  to  scorn  a  lie  as  the  base  ciime  of  a 
coward ;  and  taught  her  to  be  as  true  as  steel,  loyal,  generous, 
and  brave ;  and  she  knew  in  her  inmost  heart  that  GastOD 
Dantree  was  nor.e  of  these  diings — was  twice  as  unstaM  «  ac 
water.  Only  her  girl's  fancy  had  gone  out  to  him,  and  it  ^ai 
too  late  to  recall  the  gift. 

Her  father  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  will  say  no  more — not  one  word  ;  and  yet  it  is  a  cruel 
kindness.  Do  you  know  what  I  should  have  done,  Katl'uc, 
when  that  fellow  came  here  to  ask  your  hand  ?  I  shoald  have 
laid,  *  Slie  is  there  ;  take  her  if  you  will.  She  is  quite  ready 
and  ca[mble  of  running  away  Wth  you  to-morrow,  if  you  ask 
her  ;  but  as  long  as  I  live,  not  cie  farthing  will  she  ever  receive 
from  me — not  uiough  she  were  starving,     I  will  never  forgive 


(Of 


Ff-oRf-    iffn   w:'.Dr-^i 


in 


I, 


I ' 


Imt  ;  I  wfT  ncv'N  sr<»  hr».     ?hr  is  in  love  with  y»)u  ;  take  hei 
and  when  tht*  hni!<*yin<H>n  is  ov«r~siarve  i     I  mean  this,  Mj 
Uantrec,  aid  wc   I)aii/,<*rrielris  know   how  lo  ktep  oui  wo»4. 
iCathic,  lie  womM  n»  v.r  have  s«,l  lo(»l  aj^ain  within  this  h'     iCj 
ind  you — you  wtJiiUl  hjit«-  yo\ir  futher.     I  don't  think  J     nld 
>ear  that,  and  so,  i»!j,  child  !  iiiarry   him,  if  you  will,  0       s'cw 
/car's  Evo- what  docs  a  month   more  or  less  matter   --Mid 
•nay  the  j^wxl  (icxi  keep  yon,  anti  defend  you  from  tlie  ib-  of 
*  broken  hearted  wife  I" 

She  iiiafle  no  rci>ly  ,  her  face  was  hidden  on  his  ahotild   • 

"I  fear  for  vour  future,  rny  rhild.'-I  fear  I  1  fear  I'  • 
old  soldier  said,  with  ■^tiange  pathos  -"  I  foresee  morj  th  I 
dare  tell.  Kathie,  listen  !  Do  you  " — his  steady  voice  (altered 
a  little — '*  do  you  think  you  could  bear  to  be  poor  ?  " 

"  Poor,  papa  ? "  she  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  in 
surprise. 

"Yes,  Katherine  ;  to  be  poor  -not  as  we  were  poor  in  India, 
irith  servants  to  wait  upon  us,  and  a  colonel's  pay  to  live  on  ; 
but  if  I  were  to  die,  and  it  may  be  soon  --child,  be  still — and 
you  were  loft  alone  in  tlie  world,  friendless  and  i>ortionless,  to 
earn  your  own  living  as  other  girlb  do--do  you  think  you  could 
bear  that  ? — to  eat  poor  food  ?  to  wear  poor  clothing  ?  to  labor 
fof  others? — that  is  flhe  soit  of  poverty  I  mean." 

She  gazed  at  him,  lost  in  wonder. 

"  Poor,  poor !  1,  a  baronet's  daughter,  the  heiress  of 
Scarswood !  Papa,"  bursting  into  a  laugh  for  the  first  time— 
"  what  nonsense  are  you  talking  ?  Ills  impossible  for  me  tc 
be  poor." 

"  But  .suppose  it  were  not " — he  spoke  with  feverish  eagemess, 
iliifting  away  from  the  gaze  of  the  bright,  wondering  eyes — 
"  sappose  it  were  possible — suj)pose  such  a  fate  overtook  you 
— could  you  bear  it  ?  " 

"Sir  John  Dangerfield,"  the  young  lady  responded,  imp&' 
iently,  **  I  don't  want  to  suppose  it — 1  won't  suppose  such  a 
froposteroLS  thing !  No,  I  couldn't  bear  it — there  !  I  would 
rather  die  than  be  poor — I'ving  on  crusts — wearing  shabby 
dresses — and  working  for  insolent,  purse-proud  common  rich 
people.  Papa,  1  would  just  quietly  glide  out  of  life  in  a  double 
iose  of  morphine,  and  make  an  end  of  it  all.  But  what's  th^ 
ise  of  talking  such  rubbish  ?  I'm  Katherine  Dangeilield, 
heiress  ;  it  is  about  as  likely  that  J  snail  go  up  ^o  the  moon, 
like  Hans  Pfaal,  and  live  there  away  from  everybody,  as  tHt  I 
lhaU  evor  turn  skop-gu-l  aod  poor  " 


\ 


BRFOJfF.    Tilt     WF.nt.lSC 


lUO 


He  tet  hii  lips  hrinl  K'ncith  hi»<  iron-fi^a)  innsiachc,  ind  hit 
ioidifer's  training  stood  liini  \\\  ^u«^'.l  stcail  now.  Of  the  thjup 
pttin  At  his  heart  his  face  showed  no  sign. 

"And  you  consent,  i)ai)a--y()u  dear,  goo-l  naturcd  jid 
papa?"  the  girl  said,  her  cheek  close  to  his,  her  lips  to  h*.a  •^ar' 
"you  do  consent  I  1  am  only  seventeen,  and  silly,  no  «fSoabl^ 
but  let  me  be  happy  in  my  own  way.  I  can't  help  liking  Ga»> 
|Wi& — I  can't  indeed — and  i  want  to  trust  him — to  believe  in 
Aim.  You'll  let  me,  won't  you  ?  You  won't  say  bitter,  cynical 
Jiinss  any  more.  And  you  know  you  won't  lose  me,  as  yoa 
iroiiTd  if  1  married  an)  one  else.  You'll  only  gain  a  son  in- 
utead — and  we'll  all  live  .  ether  here,  as  the  fairy  tales  say- 
happy  forever  after. 

He  sighed  resignedly,  disengaged  himself,  ^nd  arose. 

"  *  When  a  woman  will  she  will,'  etc.  Have  your  own  way 
Katherine.  Let  the  wedding  he  on  New  Year's  P^ve.  I  give. 
y<»u  carte  blanche  for  the  trousseau-  order  what  you  please.  1 
can  say  no  more  than  that.  I  will  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bar- 
gain, since  it  is  inevitable  ,  but  \  can't  like  him — I  never  can. 
Marry  him  if  you  will,  but  1  would  almost  sooner  see  yom  deaii 
than  give  your  fate  into  his  hands.  Keep  him  away  from  me — 
r  had  rather  not  meet  him.     And  Katherine — "  a  pause. 

"Well,  papa,"  she  ".poke  rather  sadly.  It  seemed  very  ham 
that  the  two  beings  on  earth  whom  she  loved  best  could  like  on* 
another  no  better  than  this.  Mer  father  was  standing  with  hu 
bat'Jc  to  her,  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  beeches  tossiny 
Uieir  striped  branches  in  the  high  autumnal  gale. 

"Yes,  papa — what  is  it?" 

"Don't  oflfend  Mrs.  Vavasor."  He  spoke  with  an  effort 
'*  You  don't  like  her,  and  you  take  no  pains  to  hide  it.  Katki 
Trine,  it  won't  do." 

"  Why  not,  papa  ?  " 

**  I  can't  tell  you  why— only  she  is  your  guest ;  as  such  kh« 
jliould  be  treated  with  courtesy." 

**  W*ll,  I  do  try  to  be  courteous — that  is,  I  try  to  endure  her ; 
^t  papa,  she's  simply  unendurable ;  it  stifles  me  to  live  in  th# 
bouse  with  her.  I  don't  know  why — 1  suppose  we're  antago 
niftic,  as  Gaston  says,  but  my  flesh  cieeps  when  she  comes  neax 
me,  just  as  it  does  when  I  meet  a  toad.  She's  like  a  serpent 
papa — one  of  those  deadly  cobras  we  used  to  have  out  in  Indi^ 
— with  her  flittering  eyes,  and  her  sharp,  hissing  voice,  and  her 
aoiadniB,  gbding  walk*  Why  can't  you  give  her  all  the  monc;| 
sHc  wants  and  pack  her  off  about  her  business  ?  " 


i:' 


1 


I 


I' 


"ilk" 

km; 


I 


i^i 


f  fO 


AKFORF    Tfffi    WRDDIfiQ. 


**  Because — well,  because  the  world  !s  civilized^  And  she  k 
our  guest  Let  us  respect  the  sanctity  of  the  bread  and  salt 
She  has  a  hold  upon  me — I  may  admit  that  much — and  it 
places  me  ki  her  power.  If  I  or  you  offend  her,  KathenBe,  ^ 
IS  in  her  power  to  injure  us  both  more  than  I  can  say.  It  is 
iupossible  to  explain  ;  I  can  only  say  for  the  present,  treat  her 
dvilly  for  my  sake." 

**  I  will  try.     For  your  sake,  papa,  I  would  do  anything." 

*•  Except  give  up  Gaston  Dantree  !  Well,  well !  it  is  the 
pray  of  the  world — the  way  of  women — a  very  old  way,  too. 
And  now  go — 1  think  I'll  settle  my  mind  by  residing  the  Timtt 
after  all  this.  Arrange  everything — buy  the  wedding  dresses, 
let  ti.2  wedding  guests  be  bidden,  and  when  the  hour  comes  1 
will  be  ready  to  give  my  daughter  away  to  a  man  of  whom  1 
know  nothing.  That  will  do,  Kathie — I'd  rather  have  no 
thanks.  Let  the  subject  of  Mr.  Dantree  be  dropped  between 
OS — it  is  a  subject  on  which  you  and  I  can  never  agree* 
though  we  talked  to  the  crack  of  doom." 

Katherine  laid  her  hand  on  the  handle  of  the  door.  There 
was  a  swift  swish  of  silk  (xitr>ide.  She  flung  it  wide.  Had  that 
odious  little  wretch,  Mr'^  Vavasor,  been  listening?  But  the 
passage  was  deserted,  »nd  a  tail  Indian  cabinet  hid  the  little 
crouching  figure  complrtely. 

Miss  Dangerfield  ro^e  out  under  the  open  sky  and  sunny 
downs  with  her  affimred,  and  Mr.  Dantree  simply  heard  that 
papa  had  consented  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  upon 
New  Year's  Eve — no  more.  But  he  could  easily  infer  the  rest 
from  Katherine' s  douded  face. 

"The  sharp-sighted  old  baronet  has  been  abusing  me,"  re 
fleeted  Mr.  Dactr>«« ;  "  he  has  taken  my  gauge  pretty  accurately 
from  the  first.  I  wonder  how  it  is,  that  my  face,  which  makes 
ail  women  fall  ii>  V)ve  with  me,  makes  all  men  distrust  me  ?  Is 
it  that  women  9«  a  rule  are  fools,  and  the  other  sex  are  not  ? 
What  an  awful  muddle  I  nearly  made  of  it  by  carrying  that 
eonfbunded  packet  of  letters  about.  Katherine' s  a  prey  to 
tile  green-eyed  ncionster  already,  and  will  be  for  the  rest  of  her 
life.  I  suppo^  it  is  in  the  eternal  fitness  of  things,  somehow, 
that  plain  women  shoiild  be  alwviys  savagely  jealous,  espe- 
cially when  tMy  have  remarkably  handsome  husbands.  Before 
the  year  ewk  I  will  be  the  son-in-law  of  Scarswood  Park,  and 
the  husbon/)  ol  eight  thousand  a  yeai  !  Gaston  Dantree,  my 
boy,  you're  a  cleverer  fellow  tlian  even  I  gave  you  credit  for." 

Tbfcre  was  a  dinner-party  that  evening  at  Scarswood,  and  Mr. 


nPfORR    TfTR    WRDDIMG, 


III 


my 


M 


Dantree,  with  a  fatuous  smile,  made  known  to  all  whom  it  oiigtii 
concern  that  the  happy  day  was  nea<-.  Mrs.  Vavasor's  black 
eyes'  sparkled  with  th.ir  snakiest  light — the  rustling  silk  twisted, 
and  twined,  and  gleamed  about  her  in  more  serpentine  coilf 
than  ever.  She  flashed  a  glance  across  at  Peter  Dangerfield, 
^ho  sat,  with  spectacles  over  pale,  near-sighted  eyes,  on  tLf 
opix)site  side.  And  Captain  I)e  Vere  stroked  again  his  big, 
heji  vy,  dragoon  mu&tache,  and  shot  sharp  glances  of  suppressed 
ferocity  at  the  smiling  bridegroom  elect. 

"  Hang  the  beggar !  I'd  like  to  throttle  him,  with  his  self- 
satisfied  grin  and  confident  airs  of  proprietorship.  I  suppose 
Sir  John's  falling  into  his  dotage — I  can't  account  for  it  in  anj» 
other  way,  poor  little  fool,"  with  a  look  at  Katherine ;  "if  he 
treats  her  as  I  know  he  will  treat  her  after  marriage,  I'll  thrash 
him  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  'fore  George  !  I  wish  I  had 
asked  her  myself." 

The  wedding  day  was  announced,  Katherine  was  congratu- 
lated, and  a  little  before  midnight,  with  her  lover's  parting  kiss 
still  on  her  lips,  singing  softly,  she  went  up  to  her  room.  Draped 
with  rose-silk  and  laces,  the  car[)et  wreaths  of  rosebuds  on 
snow,  puffy  silken  chairs,  a  Swiss  musical-box  playing  tinkling 
tunes,  fire-light  and  waxlight  gleaming  over  all — how  pretty — 
how  pleasant  it  looked.  And  Katherine,  in  her  dinner-dress  of 
rich  mazarine  blue,  and  sapj^hire  ornaments  set  in  fine  gold, 
iank  down  in  the  puffiest  of  the  chairs  with  a  tired  sigh. 

There  came  a  soft  tap  at  the  door,  not  the  tap  of  Ninon. 
Katherine  lifted  her  dreamy  eyes  from  the  fire. 

"  Con>e  in,"  she  said. 

The  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Vavasor  entered. 

She  too  still  wore  her  dinner-dress — the  rich  sea-green  siJk 
glowed  ip  the  light  fai  behind  her.  The  d  amends  that  were  n/ii 
from  the  Palais  Royal  flashed  splendidly  on  neck,  and  arm&. 
and  ears  and  fingers.  Her  shining,  luxuriant  black  hair  tlcMteJ 
over  her  shoulders,  and  the  smile  that  rarely  left  hei  was  at  iu 
brightest  on  her  face. 

"  Am  I  an  intruder  ?  "  she  asked,  gayly.  "  What  blissfu^. 
visions  of  ante-nuptial  felicity  have  I  frightened  away  ?  You 
will  forgive  me,  I  know,  my  pet.  I  had  to  come.  Kathie, 
liear,  you  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  your  wedding  day  is  so 
near.' 

She  took  both  the  girl's  hands  in  hers.     Katherine's  first  im 
was  to  snatch  them  ioM^tiently  away,  but  she  r« 


I 


I  :,^ 


!    :         I 


(13 


BF.POHh     Tiir    WHOrtr/s^G 


\u 


bered  her  father's  warning.  This  (xiioiis,  fiiUoine,  fitwniag 
creature  had  some  mysterious  |>(3wei  over  him  \  for  his  sake  sh« 
must  be  civil. 

"You  are  very  good,"  but,  despite  the  best  intections,  Miaf 
Dangerf  eld's  voice  sounded  cold.  "  Will  you  sit  down,  Mn 
Vavasor  ?  " 

"  No,  love  ;  I  will  stay  but  a  moment  See,  it  is  midnight 
Weird  hour  I "  with  a  shrill  laugh.  "  Are  there  gho^^^s,  do  yoB 
know,  at  Scarswood  ?  Such  a  dear,  romantic  old  house  ought 
to  be  haunted,  you  know,  to  make  it  complete.  I  suppose 
every  house,  as  the  poet  says,  where  men  and  women  have 
lived  and  died,  is  haunted,  and  we  all  carry  our  ghosts  with  us 
through  life.  But  I  won't  turn  prosy  and  metaphysical  on  this 
happy  night.  Ah  !  darling  Kathie,  what  an  enviable  girl  you 
are — how  brightly  your  life  has  been  ordered  !  Seventeen,  rich, 
fiattttred,  caressed,  and  beloved  !  I  suppose  you  have  never 
had  a  single  wish  ungratifted  in  your  life,  and  in  two  months 
you  marry  the  man  you  love  with  your  whole  heart — a  man  like 
one's  dreams  of  the  01yiinj)ian  Ajiollo.  And  others  of  us  go 
tl^ough  life,  and  don't  tind  one  corn[)lctely  happy  day.  It  is  the 
old  nursery  story  over  again  :  '  This  little  pig  goes  to  market, 
and  this  little  pig  stays  at  home,'  Katherine  Dangerfield,  what 
a  happy  girl  you  ought  to  be  !  " 

"  I  am  happy,  Mrs.  Vavasor." 

Still  Mrs.  Vavasor  stood,  and  looked  at  her.  How  strange 
the  gleam  in  her  eyes,  how  strange  the  smile  on  her  lii)s  !  The 
firelight  sparkled  on  her  emerald  silk,  on  her  costly  jewels,  on 
her  shining  laces,  on  her  coils  of  satin  black  hair.  Katherine 
had  never  known  fear  in  all  her  life — but  something  in  that 
woman's  face  made  her  shrink  away  in  a  sort  of  terror. 

"  Mrs.  Vavasor,"  she  said,  rising  and  turning  white,  "  what 
is  it  you  have  come  here  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

The  widow  laughed  aloud — that  shrill,  metallic  laugh  that 
iwped  upon  the  ear. 

"What  hav!  I  come  to  say?  Why,  to  wish  you  joy,  ol 
course,  and  to  tell  you  I  am  gomg  away." 

"  Going  away  ! "  Ah,  Kathie,  what  a  poor  dissembler  you 
are  I  The  light  of  unutterable  relief  and  gladness  lights  all  year 
bee  at  the  words. 

"  Going  away,  my  dearest ;  and  if  I  dared  harbor  so  inhos- 
pitable a  suspicion,  1  should  say  you  looked  glad  to  hear  it. 
Bat  jou're  not,  are  you,  Kathie,  love — and  you  will  speed  the 
pflitmg  IpiesC  with  real  regret  ?    Yes,  my  pet,  I  am  going — 


1 


BEf^RE    THE    WEDDING. 


IIS 


■ever  to  coin<i  back — well,  not  xiorc  than  once  again,  perhl^i 
—OB  your  wedding  day.  For  I  think  I  must  really  come  to 
your  wedding,  little  Kathie,  and  wish  that  beautiful  Mr. 
Dantree  joy.  How  well  he  loves  you,  Kathie  ;  he  is  one  oi 
those  artless,  frank  kind  of  men  who  wear  their  hearts  on  thcM 
ileeves,  for  all  the  world  to  read.  Yes,  I  leave  Scarswoo<) 
last  one  week  preceding  your  wedding  day.  You  look  as  li 
yau  did  not  understand —  but  you  are  ever  so  much  rclievc^t 
4ft«  all.  By  the  bye,  Katherine,  you  grow  more  and  more  like 
your  mother  every  day.  Just  at  this  mon»ent  as  you  stand 
there  in  the  firelight,  in  that  lovely  blue  silk  and  sapphires,  you 
ire  fearfully  and  wondeifully  like  her.  Would  you  believe  it 
Miss  Dangerfield — your  mother  once  prevented  my  marriage  ?  " 

*♦  Mrs.  Vavasor  ?  " 

"Yes,  ray  dear,"  the  little  widow  said  in  her  airiest  manner, 
"  prevented  my  marriage.  It  was  all  for  the  best,  you  know — 
oh,  very  mudi  for  the  best.  I  am  not  speaking  of  Mr. 
Vavasor,  poor  dear — your  mother  never  knew  him.  I  was 
quite  young  when  my  little  romance  happened,  a  year  or  two 
older  than  you  are  now.  He  was  scarcely  older  than  myself, 
and  very  handsome — not  so  handsome  as  that  divine  Gaston, 
though,  of  course.  And  I  was — well,  yes — I  was  just  as  deeply 
in  love  as  you,  my  impetuous  darling,  are  this  moment  The 
wedding  day  was  Axed,  and  the  wedding  dress  made,  and  at 
the  last  hour  youi  mother  prevented  it.  It  is  nearly  twent) 
years  ago,  and  if  you  will  believe  it,  the  old  pain  and  disap 
pointment,  and  anger,  and  mortification  comes  back  now,  as  I 
talk,  almost  as  sharply  as  they  did  then.  For  I  suffered — as  F 
had  loved — ^greatly.  I  have  never  seen  him  for  twenty  lont 
years,  and  I  never  want  to  now.  He  is  alive  still,  and  married, 
with  j^Dwn-up  sons  and  daughters,  and  I  dare  say,  laughs  will 
ids  wife — a  great  lady,  my  dear— over  that  silly  episode  of  : 
iBOSt  silly  ]jf outh.  And  I — I  eat,  drink,  and  am  merry  a.<»  yor 
fte,  and  I  forgave  your  mother,  as  a  Christian  should,  anO 
mazned  i)00r,  dear  Mr.  Vavasor,  and  was  happy.  Your  mother 
4.ed  in  my  arms,  Kathie,  and  now  I  am  coming  to  her 
daughter's  wedding." 

She  laid  her  hand — burning  as  though  with  fever — on  tht- 
gWs  wrist,  and  fixed  her  black,  glittering  eyes  strangely  ufsOft 

*'  Look  Ibr  me  on  your  wedding  day.  (vaihcruie — I  dhall  U 
Sbere!" 
The  ^  anotdiied  her  hand  angrily  away.    "  Mrs.  Vavuoi  ! '' 


i'l 


r^ 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDlifO, 


•h«  cried  out,  '*  what  do  you  mean  ?     Why  do  jroo  look  at  hm 
•o  ?    You  frighten  mc  ! " 

**  Do  1  ?  "  with  her  mocking  laugli.  "  Now  I  never  meant 
lo  do  that.  1  don't  mean  anything,  how  could  I  ? — but  bent 
«viihe»  for  you.  Good-night,  Katherinc — bride  elect — heirm 
af  Scanwood — baronef  s  daughter — good-night,  and  pletMVi 
ilreams. 

*  Th*  mom  is  meny  Tub*,  I  trow. 

The  roM  is  buddmg  iub ; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  wintar  : 

■r*  we  two  meet  ag»iu. 
M«  turned  his  charger  as  h«  i 

Upon  the  river  shore. 
He  gave  the  reins  a  skake*  aad  oM 

Aaieu  forerennore. 
My  lore  I 

Adieu  fcravcroMirat  "* 

A  last  derisive  glance  of  the  black  eyes,  a  taunting  smile — > 
Kinging  Mr.  Dantree's  song — Mrs.  Vavasor  vanished. 

Hours  and  hours  after  Katherine  sat  very  still,  very  pale, 
and  very  unlike  her  bright,  dashing,  dehant  self^  before  the 
flickering  fire.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  Mysteries  in  books  were 
very  nice,  the  thicker  and  blacker  the  better  ;  but  jp  everyday 
life — well,  they  were  exasperating.  What  power  did  this  woman 
hold  over  her  father  ? — why  could  he  not  speak  out  and  tell 
hart  If  he  could  not  trust  the  daughter  who  loved  him,  whom 
could  he  trust !  What  did  Mrs.  Vavasor  mean  by  her  sneering 
taimts,  only  half  hidden,  her  innuendo,  her  delusive  smiles  and 
glances,  her  ominous  song  ?  Was  it  in  the  power  of  this  dark, 
evil  woman  to  part  her  and  her  lover? 

"  No,"  she  said  proudly,  lifting  her  head  with  that  haughty 
grace  that  was  her  chief  charm  ;  "  no  man  or  woman  on  earth 
can  do  that.  Nothing  in  this  world  can  come  between  Gaitov 
and  me,  unless  he  should  prove — " 

*'  False  ! "  Not  even  to  herself  could  she  repeat  that  word 
ihe  got  up  shivering  a  little. 

**  It  grows  cold,"  she  thought ;  "  I  will  go  to  bed,  and  to* 
worrow  I  shall  tell  papa,  and  beg  him  once  more  to  explain. 
I  cannot  endurr  that  woman's  presence  much  longer." 

If  early  rising  t>e  &  virtue.  Miss  Dangerfield  possessed  it. 
9ie  might  dance  all  nignt,  until  "  th*»  wee  snia'  hours  ayont  the 
twai ,"  but  she  was  prepared  to  rise  at  six  next  mornir^  <« 
fresh  as  the  freshest.  When  Su-  John  catne  out  on  the  terrace 
for  hia  mcHiiing  saioke,  he  found  his  daughter  pacing  up  and 
fliowfy  in  the  pale,  j^ili  sunlight    A  scarlet  boumous 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING, 


IIS 


•Trapped  her,  and  her  dark  face  looked  wan  and  sombor  from 
out  its  glowing  folds. 

"  You  here,  Kathcrine  ! "  the  baronet  said,  as  he  stopped 
and  kissed  her.  He  was  very  gentle  with  her  of  late ;  tbevt 
was  a  sort  of  sad,  abnorihal  tenderness  in  his  face  new.  It  did 
furprise  him  to  find  her  h:.re  so  early,  but  looking  again  at  her,  he 
ciaw  how  heavy  the  bright  eyes  were,  how  slow  the  elastic  foot 
(UU,  the  shadows  on  the  tell-tale  face.  "What  is  it,  Kathie?* 
be  asked.  "  You  look  as  though  you  hadn't  slept  last  nigbt 
Has  anything  gone  wrong  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  papa ;  nothing  exactly  gone  wrong,  perhaps :  biit 
I  feel  unhappy,  and  cross,  and  mystified.  I  didn't  sleep  last 
night,  and  it's  all  owing  to  that  detestable  woman.  Light 
your  cigar,  papa,  and  I  will  tell  you  while  we  walk  up  and 
down.'*  She  clasped  both  hands  round  his  arm,  and  looked  up 
with  dark,  solemn  eyes.  "  Papa,  I  want  you  to  send  her  aw£.y. 
She  is  a  wretch — a  wicked,  plotting,  envious  wretch  !  I  was 
happy  last  night — I  don't  think  I  ever  was  happier  in  my  life. 
What  business  had  she  to  come  and  spoil  it  all  ?  I  hate  to  be 
unhappy — I  won't  be  unhappy !  and,  papa,  I  insist  upon  youv 
sending  the  odious  little  killjoy  away  !  '* 

His  bronz.ed  face  paled  perceptibly ;  an  angry  glance  came 
into  his  steel-blue  eyes. 

'*You  mean  Mrs.  Vavasor,  I  presume?  What  has  she 
done?" 

"  Done  I "  Katherine  repeated,  with  angry  impatience — 
"  she  has  done  nothing — she  is  too  cunning  for  that ;  and  it 
isn't  altogether  what  she  says,  either ;  it's  her  look,  her  tone, 
her  smile,  that  insinuates  a  thousand  things  mere  than  she  ever 
utters.  That  horrid,  perpetual  simper  of  hers  says,  plainer  than 
vords,  *  I  know  lots  of  things  lo  your  disadvantage,  my  dear, 
ind  I'll  tell  them,  too,  some  day,  if  you  don't  use  me  welL'  I 
Aate  people  that  go  smirking  throush  life,  full  of  evil  and 
inalice,  and  all  uncharitableness,  and  who  never  lose  the'r 
temper." 

'*  You  seem  to  have  decidedly  lost  yours  this  morning,  my 
dear.     May  1  repeat — what  has  Mrs.  Vavasor  done  ?  " 

"  This,  papa  :  she  came  to  my  room  last  night,  instead  oA 
^oing  honestly  to  bed  like  any  other  Christian,  and  began  talk- 
mg  to  me  aboxU  niy — mother." 

Sir  John  Dar.gerAeld  took  his  cigar  suddenly  from  between 
tais  Up%  A  dajfk  red  fiaaA  of  intenae  anger  moandng  to  hif 
brow. 


!ri;| 


y\   } 


i 


iw6 


BEFORE   THE   WEDDISG. 


11 


I,  .1 


1!  h 


! 


I 


*<  Aboat  your  mother ! "  he  repeated,  in  a  tense  sort  of  roice 
•*What  did  Mrs.  Vavasor  say  about  your  mother,  Kathie?'* 
#"  She  said,  for  one  thing,  that  my  tiv.:>ther  once  prevented  he; 
marriage.     Now,  did  she  ?  " 

"Not  that  I  am  aware  of     Was  that  ail ?" 

"Well,  that  was  all  she  accused  her  of,  but  tliere  werv 
volumes  implied.  My  mother  died  in  her  anns,  she  said,  aa^ 
■he  had  long  ago  forgiven  her.  Papo^  if  ever  I  saw  a  devil  Li 
human  eyes  I  saw  one  in  hers  as  she  said  it.  She  hated  mj 
mother ;  she  hates  me  ;  and  if  it  is  in  her  power  to  do  iiie 
er  you  any  harm,  she  will  do  it  before  she  leaves  Suiiex  a» 
sorely  as  we  both  stand  here." 

"  Katherine,  for  Heaven's  sake — " 

"She  will,  papal"  Katherine  cried,  firmly.  "  All  the  hann 
die  can  do  us  she  will  do.  But  is  it  in  her  ix)wer  to  really 
harm  us ?    The  will  is  there  fast  enough,  but  is  tlie  way?" 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  sob  in  every  '  ford,  "  it 
is  in  her  power  to  ruin  us — to  niin  you!^ 

Katherine  looked  at  him — very  pale,  very  grave,  very  quiet 
You  could  see  at  once  how  this  impulsive  girl,  ready  to  cry  out 
lustily  with  impatient  anger  over  little  troubles,  would  beai 
great  ones. 

"  Then  Heaven  help  us  ! "  she  said,  "  if  that  be  true,  i 
don't  understand,  and  it  seems  to  me  you  will  not  explain  until 
the  blow  falls.  Perhaps  I  could  bear  it  better  if  I  knew  be 
forehand  what  I  had  to  endure.  Just  now  it  seems  strange!) 
impossible.  You  are  a  wealthy  baronet  and  I  arn  your  only 
chUd — how  can  a  woman  like  that  injure  or  niin  us  ?  Papa,' 
suddenly,  "is  there  any  flaw  in  your  right  of  succession  Xf 
Scarswood — is  there  any  heir  whose  claim  is  better  than  yotv 
own?" 

He  looked  at  her,  a  look  that  haunted  her  for  many  a  day 
with  eyes  full  of  trouble. 

"  And  if  it  were  so.  If  there  were  a  claimant  whose  righ' 
was  better  than  my  own — if  some  day,  and  very  soon.  Scars 
wood  were  taken  from  us,  and  we  went  out  into  the  world  pa^r, 
disgraced,  and  penniless,  how  would  it  be  then.  1  have  asked 
you  before,  I  ask  you  again — could  you  bear  poverty,  Katherine  ? 
Could  you  bear  to  leave  Scarswood  and  its  splendors,  and  g* 
forth  among  the  women  and  men  who  work,  and  be  happy  ?  " 

She  set  her  lips  close. 

"  I  cooid  go,  papa,  1  suppc^e,"  srie  answered,  in  a  hard  son 
of  i^oice^     "We  can  endure  5|l?nn?t  anything,  and  people  don'i 


BEFORE    THE   WEDDIffG. 


HJ 


\i 


foeak  their  hearts  for  any  loss  in  this  nineteenth  centary.  Bci 
—happy — that  is  quite  another  thing.  I  have  told  you  many 
dmes,  and  I  repeat  it  now,  I  would  rather  die  than  be  poor." 

She  stopped,  and  there  was  dead  silence  while  they  walked 
Dp  and  down  the  long  stone  terrace.  Up  in  the  bright  October 
■ky  the  sun  rained  its  golden  light,  and  up  in  the  breezy  turrets 
the  great  breakfast-bell  began  to  clang;  very  fair  Scarswood 
^k  looked  in  the  amber  radiance  of  the  crisp  early  morning 
—the  green  and  golden  depths  of  fern,  the  grand  old  oaks,  and 
elms,  and  beeches,  the  climbing  ivy  of  centuries'  growth,  the 
fed  deer  racing,  and  the  stately  old  mansion,  with  its  eastern 
windows  glittering  like  sparks  of  hre.  Katherine's  eyes  wan' 
dered  over  it  all — she  had  learned  to  love  every  tree,  everj 
■tone  in  the  grand  old  place. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  at  last,  a  sort  of  wail  in  her  tone,  •*  must 
we  go — must  we  give  up  all  this  ?  Was  I  right  after  all,  and  15 
this  the  secret  Mrs.  Vavasor  holds  ?  " 

"  Supposing  it  were — what  then,  Kathie  ?  " 

"Then,"  her  eyes  flashed,  "order  her  out  of  the  house 
within  the  hour,  though  we  should  follow  her  the  next." 

"What — and  brave  ruin  and  exposure  when  we  may  avert 
them?" 

"  You  will  not  avert  them.  That  woman  will  not  spare  yoo 
one  pang  she  can  inflict.  And  if  we  must  go  " — she  threw  back 
her  head  with  right  royal  grace — "  I  would  rather  we  walked 
out  ourselves,  than  wait  to  be  turned  out.  So  that  I  have  you 
and  Gaston  left,  papa,  I  can  endure  all  the  rest." 

His  mouth  set  itself  rigidly  under  his  beard,  and  the  soldier- 
ftre  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  Let  us  go  in,  papa,"  Kalherine  said,  resolutely,  "  and  when 
breakfast  is  over,  give  Mrs.  Vavasor  her  cofti:^e.  [t  is  for  my 
take  you  have  been  afraid  of  her — not  for  your  own.  Well,  I 
bate  poverty,  I  know,  but  I  hate  Mrs.  Vavasor  much  more. 
.^iPSMi  her  away,  and  let  her  do  her  worst." 

"  She  shall  go  I " 

"  Thank  you,  papa.  It  was  not  like  you  to  be  afraid  o( 
anybody.  I  will  breathe  freely  again  once  she  is  outside  of  Scars- 
wood.     Shall  she  go  to-day  ?  " 

"  To-day — the  sooner  the  better  ;  and  then,  Kathie — " 

"Then,  papa,  when  you  and  I  and  Gaston  go,  it  will  b< 
together.  If  we  are  to  be  poor,  I  will  work  for  you — tuis 
01  aiithoreas,  or  artist,  or  ^me^^iung  free,  and  joU^y  Kki 


1 


ji 


I 


"■  ill 


i,: 


fit 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDISG, 


Scarswood  is  mine,  and 
and  we   will   have  oui 


Bohemian,  and  try  and  remember  Scarswood,  and  ha  glorie^ 
only  as  people  lemember  beautifnl,  ir.ipop.^ible  dreams." 

"  My  dauntless  little  girl !  But  we  won't  leave  Scarswood  I 
— no,  not  for  all  the  little  painted  women  this  side  of  perdition, 
ihc  shall  go,  and  we  will  stay,  and  we  will  Ici  her  do  her  worst 
Vhile  I  live  at  least  you  are  safe — after  that — " 

**  But,  papa  \ "  with  a  sort  of  gasp,  **  that  other  heir — ^ 

'Ilie  baronet  laughed. 

"  There  is  no  other  heir,  my  dear- 
3ime  only  — Mrs.  Vavasor  shall  go 
breeding  in  peace,  and  if  in  the  future  any  great  loss  or  worldlj^ 
!nisfortune  befall  you,  let  us  hope  Gaston  Dantree^s  husbandly 
ove  will  make  up  for  it.  Yes,"  he  lifted  his  head,  and  spoke 
defiantly,  as  though  throwing  off  an  intolerable  burden,  "com? 
what  may,  the  woman  shall  go !  " 

They  found  her  in  the  breakfast  parlor  when  they  entered, 
looking  out  over  the  sunlit  landscape,  and  waiting  impatiently 
for  her  breakfast.  Late  hours  did  not  agree  with  Mrs.  Vavasoi 
— ^it  was  a  very  chalky  and  haggard  face  she  turned  to  the 
baronet  and  his  daughter  n  the  garish  morning  light.  Her 
admirers  should  have  seen  her  at  this  hour — the  seamed  and 
sallow  skin — the  dry,  parched  lips — tlie  sunken  eyes  with  the 
bistre  circles— even  the  perennial  smile,  so  radiant  and  fresh 
under  the  lamps,  looked  ghastly  in  the  honest,  wholesome  sun 
light. 

"  Good-morning,  dear  Sir  John — good-mommg,  dearest 
Kathie.  How  well  the  child  looks  after  last  night's  late  hours 
— as  fresh  «s  a  rosebud,  while  I — but  alas  !  1  am  five-and- 
thirty,  and  she  is  sweet  seventeen.  Well,  regret  for  my  lost 
youth  and  good  looks  shall  never  impair  my  appetite  ;  so  *  queei 
rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls,'  the  sooner  you  give  me  a 
flip  of  coff*»e,  the  sooner  my  nerves  will  be  strung  for  the  battle 
»f  life  that  we  all  poor  wretches  fight  every  day." 

In  dead  silence  Katherine  obeyed — in  dead  silence  the 
^onet  took  his  place.  Her  fate  was  sealed,  her  days  at 
''carswood  numbered.     She  saw  it  at  a  glance. 

**  I  frightened  her  last  night,"  she  thought,  "  and  she  has  been 
laying  in  %  complaint  to  papa,  this  morning,  and  papa  has 
plucked  up  courage  from  despair,  and  I  am  to  get  the  route  to- 
day. What  a  fool  I  grow !  Having  waited  nineteen  years,  I 
might  surely  have  waited  two  months  more.  Well,  as  I  must 
"^old  in  my  hand  that  promised  check  for  ten  thousand  pounda 
ttiar%  I  cross  the  tb«*RHold,  what  does  it  si^ify  ?     I  ^11  ^ 


I  been 
has 
te  to- 
rs,  I 
■must 
iuDd» 


BMFORE   THE   WBDDWG, 


"f 


\ 


\      i 


to  London  or  Paris — my  own  dear,  ever  new,  ever  beautifiii 
Full — ^until  the  last  week  of  the  old  year,  and  enjoy  niysell 
instead  of  moping  to  death  in  this  dull,  respectable  English 
house,  among  dull,  respectable  English  people.  It  is  just  as 
well  as  it  is." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  was  as  agreeably  conversable  as  usual  duraig 
Weakfast,  but  as  three  quarters  of  an  hour's  steady  talking  t9 
people  who  only  answer  in  tersely  chill  monosyllables  is  apt  \m 
be  wearisome  even  to  the  sprightfiest  disposition,  her  drearf 
jawn  at  rising  was  very  excusable. 

"  I  believe  I  shall  postpone  my  shopping  expedition  to 
Castleford  after  all  this  miming,  and  go  back  to  bed.  Oh 
dear  I "  another  stifled  yawn,  *'  how  sleepy  I  am.  And  we  dine 
this  evening,  do  we  not,  dearest  Kathie,  at  Morecambe  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Vavisor,"  Sir  John  interrupted  with  cold,  curt  de- 
cision, ^'before  you  go  to  Castleford  or  to  sleep,  be  kind 
•DOUgh  to  follow  me  into  my  study.  I  have  a  word  to  say  to 
you." 

He  led  the  way  instantly ;  Mrs.  Vavasor  paused  a  moment 
and  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  Katherine  with  that  smile  the 
girl  hated  so. 

**i  think  I  understand,"  she  said,  slowly.  "My  time  has 
come.  If  I  shall  twt  be  able  to  put  in  an  appearance  at  the 
Morecambe  dinner  party  this  evening,  you  will  make  my  apol- 
ogies, will  you  not,  dearest  ?  And  give  my  love  to  that 
perfectly  delicious  Mr.  Dantree." 

And  then  she  went,  humming  a  tune,  and  entered  the  study, 
and  stood  before  the  grim  old  baronet. 

He  shut  and  locked  the  door,  took  a  seat,  and  pointed  im- 
peratively for  her  to  take  another.  All  the  time  her  eyes 
followed  him  with  a  hard,  cold  glitter,  that  seemed  to  set  his 
teeth  on  edge.  He  looked  her  full  in  the  face,  and  plunged 
headlong  into  his  subject. 

"Harriet  Harman — Mrs.  Vavasor — whatever  name  you 
please,  you  must  leave  this  house  at  once  I  Yon  hear — at 
once  I" 

" I  hear,"  she  laughed.  "It  would  be  a  dull  intellect  in- 
deed, my  dear  Sir  John,  that  could  fail  to  comprehend  your 
ringing  military  orders.  I  must  go,  and  at  once.  Now  that  is 
hard  when  I  had  made  up  my  mind  not  to  stir  until  aftei 
Christmas.  Your  house  is  elegant,  youi  cook  perfection, 
vow  wines  unexceptionable,  your  purse  bottomless,  and  youi 
kfadf  wMnrnthr  txtspects^*    I'n)  not  WKd  \m  re^p«ctabU 


BBPORE    rffE    WEDDING 


m 


I .' 


!    -1 


MOple,  nor  full  purses,  anil  J  like  Scarswood.     Mow» 
I  UMiit  upon  spending  Christinas  here,  after  all  ?  *' 

She  folded  her  arms,  and  looked  at  him  exactlj  as  ibe 
ione  on  the  night  of  her  arrival. 

"  I  will  suppose  nothing  of  the  sort — you  muit  go.** 

'^  Ah  1  I  must  1  I  like  people,  do  you  know,  who  say  a 
thing,  and  stick  to  it.  Well,  you're  master  here,  of  course,  and 
tf  yon  insist  upon  it,  what  can  a  poor  little  helpless  widow  do  ? 
Bat^  Six  John,  I  wonder  you're  not  afraid." 

*' Beyond  a  certain  point  fear  ceases,  and  desperation 
comes.  I  can  endure  your  presence,  your  sneers,  your  covert 
threats  no  longer.  You  are  no  fit  companion,  as  I  told  you 
bdbre,  for  Katherine — a  woman  noted  as  the  most  notorious 
gambler  of  Baden  and  Ho'nburg  during  the  past  ten  years. 
The  girl  hates  you,  as  you  know,  and  you — how  dared  you  go 
CO  her  room  as  yen  did  last  night,  and  talk  of  her  mother? 
How  dared  you  do  it  ?  " 

His  passion  was  rising — there  was  a  suppressed  fury  in  his 
tone  and  look,  all  the  stronger  for  being  so  long  restrained. 
The  widow  met  it  with  a  second  scornful  laugh. 

"  How  dared  I  do  it  ?  You  have  yet  to  learn  what  I  dare 
do,  Sir  John.  Don't  lose  your  temper,  I  beg — if  s  not  becoming 
in  a  soldier,  a  gentleman,  and  a  baronet.  How  dared  I  talk 
to  Katherine  of  her  mother?  Now,  really,  Sir  John,  that 
sounds  almost  wicked,  doesn't  it?  What  more  filial — what 
CQore  sacred  subject  could  I  talk  to  a  child  upon  than  the  sub- 
ject of  her  sainted  mother  ?  " 

"  Harriet,  I  thought  I  would  never  stoop  to  ask  a  favor  tA 
you  again,  but  now  I  do.     Tell  me — " 

<*That  will  do.  Sir  John — I  know  what  is  coming,  and  I 
won't  tell — never  1  never  I  never  !  It  would  be  poor  revenge 
indeed  if  I  did.  What  you  know  now  is  all  you  ever  wiU 
know,  or  she  either.  I'll  leave  Scarswood  to-day,  if  you 
like.  After  all,  hum-drum  respectability  and  stupid  stuck-up 
country  fiunilies  are  apt  to  pall  on  depraved  Bohemian  palates 
■sed  to  clever  disreputable  nobodies.  Yes,  I'll  go,  Sir  John. 
Give  me  that  ten  thousand  pound  check.  Mm  Dieu  I  the  life 
I  mean  t®  lead  in  Paris  on  that  \  delightful,  respectable,  ortho> 
4oz — and  I'll  shake  the  du>t  of  Scarswood  off  my  wandering 
fcet  -Ibrever  1 " 

**  Forever  1     You  swear  never  to  trouble  at  flMWt  ?" 

^  I  will  swear  aaythinff  you  like,  bsronet 
Ifi  an  ttwMm  tc  Mok  YMnnof.*' 


I 


BEFORE    THE   WEDDIHO 


Iff 


hehftd 


>  saj  • 
le,  and 
>wdo? 

teration 
■  covert 
old  y«Hi 
>torioufl 
\  years, 
you  go 
nother? 

y  in  hif 
^trained. 

t  I  dare 
icoming 
1 1  talk 
m,  that 
l_what 
the  8ub- 


avor 


of 


**  Heir  can  I  trust  you  }  How  ain  I  to  tell  that  after  I  p«v 
yoa  the  exorbitant  price  you  ask  for  your  secrecy,  you  wiU 
not  go  to  Peter  Dan^erfield  and  betray  me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Vav9'4or  laid  nei  hand  on  her  heart. 

"  On  the  honor  of  all  llic  Va,vasors,  whose  sang-azurt  flowf 
in  those  veins,  I  swear  it  t  You  nuist  take  my  word,  baronet* 
and  chance  it.  Have  1  not  promised— -am  1  not  ready  Uf 
iwear — *by  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  liave  broken'  ?  What 
more  do  you  want  ?  Give  me  the  money,  and  let  me  bid 
you-  -*  oh,  friend  of  my  brighter  days  I ' — one  long,  one  laM 
fitfewcU I " 

He  went  to  his  writing-case,  and  handed  her  a  crossed  check 
for  ten  thousand  pounds.  Her  eyes  Hashed  with  intense  de« 
light  as  she  looked  at  it. 

"  Ten  thousand  pounds !  Ten  thousand  pounds  1  and  1 
never  had  teiw  thousand  pence  before  in  all  my  life.  Sir  John, 
a  million  thanks  May  you  be  ha]  ! — may  your  shadow 
never  be  less!  May  your  children's  children  (meanirvg  the 
future  little  Danrrees)  rise  up,  and  call  you  blessed  I  Those 
Aged  eyes  of  yourM  will  never  be  pained  by  the  spectacle  of 
my  faded  features  n«ore.  I  go,  Sir  John — I  go — and  1  leave 
my  benediction  behind  " 

She  went  up  to  her  room  singing.  Ninon  was  summoned, 
a  chambermaid  was  sunnnoned,  and  Mrs.  Vavasor  worked 
with  right  good-will  Two  I'ttle  shabby  portmanteaus  had  held 
Mrs.  Vavasor's  wardrolx^  last  September-  now  four  large 
trunks  and  no  end  ?f  big  boxes,  little  boxes,  and  hand-bags 
were  filled.  And  with  the  yellow  radiance  of  the  noonday 
sunshine  bathing  park  trees,  turrets,  and  stately  mansion 
in  its  glory,  Mrs.  Vavasor  was  whirled  away  to  Castleford  sta- 
tion. 

She  looked  back  as  the  light  trap  flew  through  the  great 
gateSj  and  under  the  huge  Norman  arch. 

*'  A  fair  and  noble  inheritance,"  she  said ;  "  too  fair  by  far 
to  go  to  her  mother's  daughter.  Vour  sky  is  without  a  cloud, 
now,  but  when  next  I  come,  my  brilliant,  h  ppy,  haughty 
Katherine,  look  to  yourself.  This  niorning's  work  is  your  do- 
bg — I  am  not  likely  to  forget  that." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  was  gone.  The  ne.s  fell  upon  Mr.  7etet 
Dangertield  like  a  blow.  As  suddenly  and  mysteri'-^ly  ai 
she  had  at  first  appeared,  she  had  vanished,  and  where  ,ere  aO 
her  vague  promises  and  bewildering  insinuations  now  > 

Ktri>mnf  wat  to  be  layenedi  £»  )««dding  day  was  fixedi  he 


■'    I-, 


r  ?i 


.m 


ill 


BF.FORF  rrtp.  wp.nnmo. 


had  been  bidden  to  the  feast.  She  had  iisulted  hinv  icoinel 
him ;  he  must  pocket  his  rage,  and  live  without  his  revenge. 
He  was  not  prepared  to  break  the  law  and  cviiiiniit  a  murder, 
and  how  else  was  he  to  pay  off  this  insolent  heiiess,  a&d 
her  still  more  insolent  lover  ?  Mrs.  Vavasor  was  gone,  and  tl) 
his  hopes  of  vengeance  went  with  her. 

Something  might  happen,  to  bt;  sure,  between  this  and  Uu 
wedding  day.  Gaston  Dan  tree  might  be  shown  up  in  his  true 
colors,  as  the  unprincipled  fortune  hunter  he  was.  People  dif 
suddenly,  too,  occasionally.  Katherine  might  bresik  het 
neck  even,  in  one  of  her  mad  gallops  over  highways  and  by* 
ways.     While  there  is  life  there  is  hope. 

He  went  to  Scarswood  pretty  frequently  now — saw  the 
lovers  together  happy  and  handsome,  made  himself  agreeable, 
always  in  a  cousinly  way,  and  the  weeks  sped  on.  The  trout 
seau  was  ordered,  all  was  joy  and  gayety  at  the  great  house 
Christmas  week  came  and  nothing  had  happened. 

He  sat  moodily  alone  one  evening — Christmas  Eve  it  chancec' 
to  be — before  his  solitary  bachelor  fire,  brooding  over  his 
wrongs.  His  solitary,  bachelor  dinner  stood  on  the  table — he 
had  been  invited  to  a  brilliant  dinner  party  at  Scarswood,  but 
he  was  growing  tired  of  going  to  Scarswood,  and  hoping  against 
hope.  Nothing  ever  befell  this  insolent  pair — Katherine 
grew  happier — brighter — more  joyous  every  day,  and  that  up- 
start, Dantree,  more  invincibly  ^ood-looking.  Nothing  hap- 
pened J  luck  was  dead  against  him ;  nothing  ever  would  hajv 
pen.  This  night  week  was  the  wedding  night — and  what  a 
life  spread  before  those  two  in  the  future.  It  drove  him  half- 
mad  to  look  at  them  at  times.  And  he — he  must  go  on 
grubbing  like  a  worm  in  the  clay,  for  ever  and  ever.  Kathe- 
rine and  Katherine' s  children  would  inherit  Scarswood,  anv? 
all  hope  was  at  an  end  for  him.  He  was  only  a  rickety  dwart 
Never  while  life  remained  would  he  forget  or  forgive  those 
cruel  words. 

"If  I  live  for  sixty  years  to  come,  I'll  only  live  in  the 
hope  of  paying  you  of!^  my  lady,"  he  muttered,  clenching  hi2 
teeth ;  "  it's  a  long  lane,  indeed,  that  has  no  turning !  Curse 
that  Mrs.  Vavasor  1   If  she  knew  anything,  why  didn'^  she  tell 

?" 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 

*'Ccnue  in,''  he  called,  sulkily;    "it's  time  you  came  to 
Ifaat  mess."    He  tfiou^t  it  was  the  setvant,  b«| 
m  Mtwfc    9tA  ojpioi^  TAtteil^  eulesedL 


I 


rnf<  whonih/i;  i^ic.ht 


i«f 


I 


He  arose  in  surpriise,  and  slorxl  iooktn|{  at  her.  Wlio  wm 
thii?  She  shut  the  door,  Iiiiium]  thf  key,  advanced  tow^o^ 
him,  and  held  out  her  hands  lu  thi  tire. 

"  It  is  cold,"  she  said,  '*  and  t  hive  walkt;d  all  the  vtLj  fraai 
the  station.  Have  you  dined?  Whitapityl  And  1  aiu  hongry, 
Well,  give  me  a  gl^s  of  wine  at  least." 

lie  knew  the  voice.  With  a  suppressed  exclamation  he  dran 
nearer. 

"  It  is,"  he  said—"  surely  it  is—" 

"  Mrs.  Vavasor  I "  She  flung  back  her  vail  and  nnet  hit 
fiance,  with  the  old  smile,  the  old  nialicious  expression.  **  Yes, 
;t  is  Mrs.  Vavasor,  come  ail  the  way  from  Paris  to  see  you, 
and  keep  her  word.  A  promise  should  be  held  sacred — and 
I  promised  you  your  revenge,  (li<l  I  not?  Yes,  Mr.  Dangei 
field,  I  have  travelled  straight  from  Paris  to  you,  to  tell  you 
what  is  to  make  your  Inrtune,  and  nnne — Sir  John  I)angerfield'f 
secret  r* 


CHAPTER   XI. 


THK   WEDDING    NIGHT. 


ITH  a  fierce,  low  cry  of  intense  delight,  Peter  Danger 
field  grasped  her  by  the  wrist,  his  thin  face  doee  to 
hers,  and  flushed  with  eager  joy. 

"  You  will  tell  me  I "  he  almost  gasped — "yon  roea^ 
it  this  night  I — you  will  tell  me  to-night ! " 

"  To-night.  I^€,  go  my  wrist,  Mr.  Dangerfield  ;  you  hurt  ne. 
Be  civil  enough  to  hand  me  a  chair  :  now  a  glass  of  wine— oi 
tumndy,  if  you  have  it.     Ah  1  this  is  the  true  elixir  of  life  I  ** 

She  sat  down  before  the  fire,  put  up  her  little  Pans  gaitcn 
on  the  fender,  lay  back  luxuriously,  and  took  the  glass  of 
French  brandy  he  offered  her. 

"  You  are  sure  there  are  no  eavesdroppers  in  your  establish* 
meitt,  mtn  amif    I  don  t  care  about  being  overheard." 
**  There  are  none." 

Sifce  drew  forth  from  bor  purse  a  »i>i>  of  written  paper — Petei 
DackgyesfiekTs  pftsKiae  to  ^^  Mr  tori  ni^evT^ond  ^Kmntk  whta 
^oarvwood  becuxse  faOB. 


V 


:lf 


i''j 


t:     : 


:  I   i! 


M 


THE    li^RDlilSG  jM'J.fJfT, 


"  Yoii  recognize  this,  Mr.  Dangerfield,  and  aic  tciH  v^dliaf  t« 
abide  by  it  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  willing.  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  keep  me  ir 
diis  fever  of  suspense  and  curiosity — speak  out !" 

She  replaced  the  slip  of  paper,  finished  the  brandy,  and  pro- 
ioced  a  rose  scented  cigarette. 

"  I  always  smoke  when  I  talk,  if  possible,  and  the  story  I 
kftve  to  tell  is  a  somewhat  lengthy  one.  Won't  you  load,  and 
tight  ap  also  ? — 1  see  your  little  black  pipe  there  on  the  chim 
5iey  piece.  No  ?  You're  too  anxious,  I  perceive,  and  nobod> 
ran  enjoy  a  pipe  or  rnanilla,  and  listen  thoroughly  at  the  same 
time.  Well,  before  I  begin,  I  must  extort  another  promise. 
No  matter  what  I  tell  you,  you  are  not  to  speak  of  it  until  I 
give  you  leave.  Don't  look  alannjfd — your  prohibition  will 
not  last  long — only  until  Katherine  Dangerfield' s  wedding-day. 
Is  it  a  promise  ?  " 

"  It  is.     Go  on — go  on  1 " 

"  Draw  closer,  then." 

He  obeyed,  and  little  Mrs.  V.'4vasor,  leaning  back  in  the 
rasv  chair,  shoes  to  the  fire,  ciga/ette  in  mouth,  began,  fluently 
ana  at  once,  the  story  she  had  come  to  tell. 


The  Christmas  festivities  at  Scarswood  were  very  gay  indeed, 
and  Mr.  Peter  Dangerfield  missed  a  very  pleasant  evening  by 
staying  away.  Perhai)s,  though,  on  the  whole,  he  enjoyed  him- 
self quite  as  much  in  his  bachelor  lodgings  at  Castleford,  tete-^ 
t^e  with  Mrs.  Vavasor.  The  long  drawing-rooms  were  ablaze 
with  light,  and  festooned  with  ivy  and  mistletoe,  and  gleaming 
with  scarlet  hollyberries.  A  very  large  company  were  assem- 
bled— it  was  an  understood  thing  that  Miss  Dangerfield  ap- 
peared in  public  no  more  until  she  appeared  as  a  bride. 

She  was  looking  very  well  to-night — her  large  eyes  full  of  lu*- 
tsoas  light,  her  animated  face  dimpling  ever  into  radiant  smilet. 
Hei  silken  robe  of  white,  shot  with  palest  rose,  blushed  as  she 
talked :  large  Oriental  pearls  clasped  back  the  floating  broi*n 
hair,  and  shone  in  cloudy  splendor  on  her  slim  throat  Not 
bandsome — never  that — but  bright  with  health,  youth,  and  per- 
fect happiness. 

Since  the  day  of  Mrs.  Vava.^or's  departure,  the  dajn  and 
vcelu  lay  bd^d  her  in  a  golden  mist.     Time  never  flow  M 


*  Oov  bdMhs  M  «h«  feet  of  I 


^ 


THE    WEDDING   NIGHT 


$ 


and 


The  only  thorn  m  her  rose-crown  had  beerj  removed — patps 
looked  contented,  or  if  not  coniciUed,  resigneil — Gaston  wm 
all  in  the  way  of  a  devoted  Romeo  the  most  exacting  Juliet 
could  wish.  Then  there  had  been  the  trousseau  to  order — t 
trip  to  London  to  make,  endless  new  dresses,  and  bonnets,  an4 
presents,  and  altogethei  Christmas  F-ve  had  come  with  magical 
quickness.  On  New  Year's  Eve — just  one  week  from  to- 
night— she  would  be  Gaston's  wife,  and  the  happiest  bride  the 
mde  earth  held.  They  were  to  be  married  at  eleven  in  the 
forenoon  in  Castleford  Church.  Fxlith  Talbot  to  be  first  brides- 
maid, and  her  brother  chief  groomsman,  and  after  the  wedding 
breakfast,  the  "  happy  pair  "  were  to  start  on  their  honeymoon 
journey — a  long,  delightful  continental  trip,  which  was  to  ex 
tend  far  into  the  spring.  Then  would  come  the  return,  the 
bonures,  the  bell-ringing,  the  feasting  of  tenantry,  and  she 
and  Gaston  would  settle  down  seigrieur  and  chutelaine  of  Scars- 
wood,  and  life  would  go  on  forever  a  perpetual  round  of  \jO\\- 
don  seasons,  presentations  at  court,  I'aris  winters,  autumns  at 
Scarswood,  operas,  balls,  and  all  the  salt  of  life. 

That  was  the  programme.  "Man  proposes" — you  know 
the  proverb.  The  ante-matrimonial  horizon  just  at  present 
looked  cloudless — a  violet  sky  set  with  gold  stars — not  a  cloud 
in  all  its  dazzling  expanse.  And  five  miles  away  at  Castleford, 
a  man  and  woman  sat  plotting  her  life-long  misery,  disgrace, 
and  ruin. 

Mr.  Dantreewasin  great  force  to-night — his  voire,  and  looks, 
his  whole  worldly  wealth,  at  their  best.  He  had  been  the 
world's  football  a  long  time — a  scape -goat  of  society,  fighting 
his  way  inch  by  inch,  and  now  the  goal  was  won.  Fortune  such 
as  he  had  never  dared  dream  of  or  hope  for  had  come  to  him 
—eight  thousand  a  year,  and  a  title  in  prospective.  And 
all,  thanks  to  his  suave,  olive-skinned  beauty  and  flute-like 
foic«. 

"Only  one  week  moN,,  Gaston,  mon  fils^^  he  said  to  himself, 
exultantly,  as  he  whirled  homeward  with  the  Talbots,  *'  and 
then  let  Fate  do  her  worst — she  can't  oust  me  from  Scarswood 
ai)d  my  wife.  Unless — always  unless — unless  Marie  shouU 
tak;  it  into  her  jealous  head  to  come  over  here  and  hunt  inc 
up.  I  wonder  what  she  said  or  did  when  she  got  all  her  let 
ters  back.  I  know  what  she  thought ;  there  could  be  no  twc 
opinions  on  that  subject.  Poor,  passionate,  proud  Utile  beauty  ' 
What  an  unmitigated  scoundrel  1  am,  to  be  sure  !  The  ncarc> 
iM  wed^ng  dc^r  draws  the  more  I  seem  to  think  of  her — th« 


i3i 


THE    WRDrytNG  NIGBT, 


1 


'Hi 


ni; 


■  IF 


fnuJiei  I  grow  of  her — all  because  I've  giveit  her  up  forevei,  \ 
nippose." 

But  fondness  for  any  human  creature  was  not  a  weaknen 
Mr.  Dantree  would  ever  allow  to  stand  in  his  way  to  fortane 
Jealous  and  exacting  as  nature  had  made  the  baronet's  dau^h 
ter — her  accepted  iover  gave  her  no  shadow  of  excuse  fa 
either.  He  played  his  role  of  Romeo  to  perfection  ;  if  it  bored 
him  insufferably  she  never  saw  it ;  and  now — it  was  only  owi 
week,  and  once  her  husband,  why  all  this  untiring  devotior 
might  reasonably  cool  down  a  trifle,  and  the  :ontinual  '*  tvi-ndej 
nothings"  of  courtship  give  place  to  the  calm  friendliness  of 
humdrum  married  life. 

"  She  can't  expect  a  fellow  to  dangle  at  her  apron-strings  all 
her  days,"  Mr.  Dantree  thought :  "  if  slie  does  she's  mistaken 
—that's  all.  I'm  ready  to  call  all  the  gods  to  witness  that  I 
jidore  the  ground  she  treads  on,  before  the  words  are  said,  and 
khe  nuptial  knot  tied;  but  afterward,  my  bonnibelle,  you'll 
have  to  take  it  for  granted  or  do  without-  Men  love  most,  tb 
wiseacres  say,  before  marriage  ;  women  most  after.  How  will 
W.  be  with  me,  I  wonder,  who  don't  love  at  all  ?  " 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  the  carriage  of  the  last  guest 
rolled  away  from  the  hospitable  portals  of  Scarswood,  and  the 
"  lights  were  fied,  the  garlands  dead,  the  banquet  hall  deserted." 
And  Katherine,  trailing  her  brilliant  silk  after  her,  her  jewels 
gleaming  in  the  fitful  light,  eyes  shining,  and  cheeks  flushed, 
went  up  to  her  room.  Through  the  oriel  window  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs  the  full  winter  midnight  moon  shone  gloriously. 
The  Bloody  Hand,  and  the  crest  of  the  Dangerfields — a  falcon 
rending  a  dove — shone  out  vividly  through  the  painted  panes 
A  bladk  frost  held  the  earth  in  hands  of  iron  ;  the  skeleton 
trees  waved  gaunt,  striped  arms  in  the  park ;  the  wild  Decem- 
ber wind  iidiistled  shrilly  up  from  the  coast,  and  overhead 
spread  that  blue,  star-studded,  Lioonlit  sky.  Kathenne  leaned 
against  the  glass  and  gazed  up  at  that  shining  silver  orb,  and 
her  thoughts  drifted  away  from  her  own  supreme  bliss  to  thaf 
other  Cluistmas  ever  so  many  hundred  years  ago,  when  the 
first  anthem  was  sung  by  the  angels  over  the  blue  hills  of  Galilee. 

"  Katherine  1"  Her  father's  door  opened,  and  her  father*! 
mice  called.  ''You  will  take  cold  to  a  dead  certj^nty,  stand 
ing  there.     I  thought  you  had  gone  to  your  room.'' 

"  I'm  goins  papa — I'm  not  in  the  least  sleepy — I  never  am 
riecpf ,  I  think,  on  bright,  moonlight  nights  like  this.  I  wondei 
tf  B^  bMb  11  touched  like  other  lun&tics  at  the  fiill  of  tbt 


THM   WRt^DING  fflGIfT. 


i«r 


moon.  Why  are  you  not  in  bed  ?  Papa ! "  with  a  sudden  cp 
of  alann — a  sudden  spring  forward,  "  you  are  not  well !  " 

His  face  was  of  a  strange,  livid  hue,  thsre  was  a  continoal 
neivous  witching  of  the  muscles,  and  his  eyes  had  a  nnirity, 
bloodshot  look. 

**  Papa,  darling  !  what  is  it  ?     Are  you  iil  ?  " 

"Not  very  well,  I  fear.  1  have  not  been  well  for  days,  bu< 
I  feel  worse  to-night  than  usual.  And  I  think  I  ought  to  tell 
rou— if  anything  should  happen."  He  paused,  and  put  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  in  a  confused  sort  of  way.  "  My  head 
feels  all  wrong  somehow  to-night.  Katherine,  if  you're  not 
sleepy,  come  in — I  have  something  of  importance  to  say  to 
you." 

She  followed  him,  in  some  wonder  and  more  alarm.  His 
(ace  had  changed  from  its  dull  pallor  to  dark  red,  his  voice 
sounded  incoherent  and  husky.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  She 
entered  his  room,  watching  him  with  wide,  wondering  eyes. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said,  impatiently  shifting  away  from  hei 
glijice,  "  and  don't  stare  in  that  way,  child.  I  don't  suppose 
it's  anything  to  be  alarnied  about,  only — I  think  I  ought  to  telL 
You're  going  to  be  married,  and  you  ought  to  know.  Then 
the  burden  and  the  secrecy  will  be  off  my  conscience,  and  you 
can  tell  him  or  Pot,  as  you  please.  That  will  be  your  affair, 
and  if  he  deserts  you — "  He  stopped  again,  again  pressed  h'3 
hand  hard  over  his  forehead,  as  though  the  thread  of  his  ideas 
had  broken.  "  There's  something  queer  the  matter  with  my 
head,"  he  half  muttered  :  "  I  don't  seem  able  to  talk  or  think 
somehow  to-wight" 

"  Then  I  wouldn't  try,  papa,"  Katherine  interrupted,  more 
and  more  alarmed ;  "  you  are  looking  dreadfully.  Let  me  ring 
far  Fran9ois  to  see  you  and  send  for  the  doctor.  I  am  sure 
you  are  not  fit  to  be  up." 

"  No,  no— don't  send — at  least  not  yet.  I  have  made  up 
liy  mind  to-night,  and,  if  I  don't  tell  you  now,  I  may  nevei 
MmmoB  courage  again.  You  ought  to  know,  child — you 
9upht  to  know.  You  are  not  safe  for  an  hour.  It  is  like 
Sving  over  a  lighted  mine,  until  that  woman  is  dead.  Yob 
ought  to  tell  him — that  fellow — Dantree,  you  know.  If  he  de- 
serts you,  as  I  said,  better  to  do  it  before  the  wedding  day  man 
after.  I  know  it  is  the  money  he  wants — I  know  he's  a 
coward,  and  a  humbug,  and  a  fortune  hunter,  and  it  may  be  ***• 
greatest  mercy  for  you,  child,  if  he  does  leave  you  before  tiM 
weddmg  day." 


! 


if 


I 


iii 


m 


If  I 


is8 


rwff  wRDDtsa  ^rGBT. 


Catherine  started  to  her  feet. 

"Papa,"  she  cried  passionately,  "this  is  too  bad  -tuou^uel} 
I  thought  you  were  never  going  to  speak  against  Gaston  agaia 
— you  told  me  you  would  not — surely  he  has  done  nothing  to 
deserve  it.  This  day  week  is  my  wedding  day,  and  you  talk  di 
his  deserting  me.  Papa,  if  such  a  thing  hapi'ened — could)aak\^ 
pen — I  would  kill  myself— I  tell  you  1  would  !  I  would  nevo 
lurvive  such  disgrace  !  " 

He  sank  into  a  chair  in  a  dazed,  helpless  f»rt  of  way. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  he  said  wearily  ;  "  wliat  shall  I  do  ?  If  1 
had  only  told  her  years  and  years  ago  !    Now  it  is  too  late." 

She  stood  and  looked  at  him,  pale  with  wonder  and  vague 
«larm. 

"  Told  me  what?  Is  it  the  secret  that  Mrs.  Vavasor  holds? 
Why  not  tell  me,  then  ?  Whatever  it  is,  I  can  bear  it — I  can 
bear  anything,  only  your  hard  words  of  Gaston,  your  talk  of  his 
deserting  me.  Tell  me,  my  father — I'm  not  a  child  or  a  cow- 
ard.    I  can  bear  it,  whatever  it  is." 

"You  think  so,  but  you  don't  know — you  don't  know  !  You 
hate  that  woman,  and  you  are  so  proud — so  proud !  You  can- 
not bear  poverty — you  told  rne  that — and  1 — ^what  can  I  do  ? 
I  cannr»t  save  you  from — " 

Hi^  ii  toherent  words  died  away — his  head  fell  back.  Kath- 
erine  spiang  to  his  side  with  a  scream  of  terror.  Another 
mstant  and  she  flew  to  the  bell,  ringing  a  peal  that  nearly  tore 
it  down.     Oh !  what  was  this  ? 

His  face  had  grown  purple — his  whole  form  rigid — what  he 
had  feared  so  long  had  befallen  at  last.  He  was  stricken  witk 
apoplexy. 

The  room  filled  with  frightened  servants.  After  the  first 
shock,  all  Katherine's  senses  came  back.  She  dispatched  a 
man  at  once  to  Castleford  for  the  family  doctor.  Sir  John  wai 
conve>ed  to  bed,  undressed,  and  all  the  restoratives  they  knew 
!k^w  to  use  applied.  All  in  vain.  With  the  dawning  of  the 
Christmas  day,  the  stalwart  old  soldier  lay  before  them,  breati) 
ing  stentoriously,  and  quite  senseless. 

Doctor  Graves  and  his  attendant,  a  young  man,  Mr.  Otis, 
arrived,  and  pronounced  the  fit  apojilexy  at  once.  They  sent 
the  pale  girl  in  the  festal  dress,  the  shining  pearls,  and  the  wild, 
wide  eyes  out  of  the  room,  and  did  their  best  for  the  master  o< 
that  grand  old  house.  But  they  labored  in  vain,  the  long  hours 
wore  away — and  still  Sir  John  lay  ri^id  and  senseless  wh<.r« 
tli^  had  fiMt  laid  him. 


Irs 


r^TE    IVEDDmV'G  nig  ITT 


119 


White  as  a  spirit,  almost  as  cold,  almost  as  still,  Katberinc  vr<»nt 
mpto  her  room.  She  made  no  attempt  to  change  her  dret  •»  to  ri»- 
move  her  jewels.  She  had  loved  this  most  indulg':nt  fath*£r  verjr 
dearly — the  possibility  that  ho  could  be  taken  from  her  hatf 
never  occurred  to  her.  Only  yesterday  morninj»  h«^  had  ridder 
with  her  over  the  downs,  only  last  night  he  had  sat  »t  the  heai) 
of  his  tabic  and  entertained  his  guests.  And  now — he  lay  yon 
»4er,  stark  and  lifeless — dead  already  for  what  she  knew. 

She  could  not  rest.  She  left  her  room,  and  paced  up  and 
down  the  long  corridor.  He  was  not  dead — she  could  hear  hii 
laad  breathing  where  she  walked.  She  could  not  cry ;  tears, 
that  relieve  other  women,  other  girls  of  her  age,  rarely  came  to 
Katherine.  She  felt  cold  and  wretched.  How  drearily  still 
the  great  house  was  I  Would  those  two  doctors  never  opec 
that  door  and  let  her  in  to  her  father  !  What  had  he  been  try 
ing  to  tell  her  ? — what  dreadful  secret  was  this  that  involved 
her  life,  and  which  made  his  so  miserable  ?  He  had  talked  o! 
Gaston  deserting  her.  The  wedding  must  be  postponed  now, 
and  postponed  weddings  were  always  ominous.  How  was  il 
all  going  to  end  ?  She  shivered  in  her  low-necked  and  short 
sleeved  dress,  but  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  go  for  a  wrap. 
She  stood  and  looked  out  of  the  oriel  window  once  mor<\ 
Morning  was  breaking — Christmas  morning — red  and  golden, 
and  glorious  in  the  east.  The  first  pink  rays  of  the  sunrise 
glinted  through  the  leafless  trees,  over  terrace  and  glade,  lawn 
and  woodland.  Outside  the  gates  die  carol  singers  were 
blithely  chanting  already ;  new  life — new  joy  everywhere  with- 
out and  within,  the  lord  of  this  stately  mansion,  of  this  majestic 
park,  lay  d3ang,  it  might  be. 

But  it  was  not  death.  The  door  opened  presently,  and  tht 
pale,  keen  face  of  Mr.  Otis,  the  assistant,  looked  out. 

"  Sir  John  has  recovered  consciousness,  Miss  Dangerfield," 
Im  said,  "  and  is  asking  for  you." 

"Thank  God  !"  Katherine' s  heart  responded,  but  thedreai; 
^pression  did  not  lift.  She  went  into  the  sick  room,  knelt 
down  beside  the  bed  in  her  shining  robes,  and  softly  "kiaved  the 
helpless  hand. 

"  You  are  better,  papa  ?  " 

But  Doctor  Graves  interrupted  at  once. 

"You  may  remain  with  Sir  John,  Miss  Dangerfield,  but 
neither  of  you  must  speak  a  word.  Danger  is  over  for  the 
present,  but  I  warn  ycu  the  slightest  excilcm^r/i  now  ot  at  an| 
wiaast  time  may  prove  fatal 


■  I 


nl' 


V'    ':!: 


i'lli 


i 

W  f 


im    if 


1 


lao 


TAW   WED  LING  N/dHT, 


The  eyes  of  the  stricken  man  were  fixed  upon  her  with  c 
ttrange,  earnest  wistfulness  He  tried  feebly  to  speak — his  &»> 
gen  closed  almost  convulsively  over  hers.  She  bent  her  ear  H 
catch  his  words. 

**  Send  for  Hammersly — I  must  make  my  will" 

&e  kissed  him  soothingly. 

*'  Yes,  papa,  darling,  but  not  now.  There's  no  hurry,  ymi 
know — all  present  danger  is  over.  You  are  to  be  very  still, 
Im]  go  to  sleep.     I  will  stay  by  you  and  watch." 

^  You  will  drink  this,  Sir  John,"  Doctor  Graves  said,  author 
itatively,  and  the  sick  man  swallowed  the  opiate,  and,  with  hie 
hand  still  clasped  in  Katherine's,  fell  asleep. 

Dr.  Graves  departed.  Mr.  Otis  remained ;  Katherine  kept 
her  vigil  by  the  bedside,  very  pale  in  the  sunlight  of  the  new 
day.  Mr.  Otis  watched  her  furtively  from  his  remote  seat. 
Hers  was  a  striking  face,  he  thought,  a  powerful  face — a  fact) 
liill  of  character. 

"  That  girl  will  be  n^  common  woman,"  he  thought ;  "  foi 
Rood  or  for  evil,  she's  d<da.t.ned  to  wield  a  powerful  influence. 
You  don't  see  such  a  face  as  that  many  times  in  life." 

The  weary  moments  wore  on.  The  Christmas  morning 
grew  brighter  and  brighter.  The  house  was  still  very  quiet. 
Outside  the  wintry  sunshine  sparkled,  and  the  trees  ratiicd  in 
the  frosty  wind.  The  pale  watcher  lay  back  in  her  chair,  paler 
with  every  passing  moment,  but  never  oflfering  to  stir.  How 
white  she  was,  how  weary  she  looked.  The  young  physician's 
heart  went  out  to  her  in  a  great  compassion. 

"Miss  Dang'hield,  pardon  me,  but  you  are  worn  out 
There  is  no  danger  now,  and  you  may  safely  trust  Sir  Johr 
to  my  care.  Pray  let  me  prevail  upon  you  to  go  and  lie 
down." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise, 
u»d  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  You  are  very  kind,'  she  said  gently,  "  but  I  promised  to 
Aay  here  until  he  awoke." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said — Miss  Dangerfield's  tone 
admitted  of  no  dispute.  Mr.  Otis  went  back  to  his  seat,  and 
listened  to  the  ticking  of  the  clock  and  the  sighing  of  the  De> 
cember  wind. 

It  was  almost  noon  >7hen  Sir  John  awoke — mnch  better,  an4 
quite  conscious.  His  daughter  had  never  stirred.  She  beat 
over  turn  the  instant  his  eyes  opened. 

**  Pa|^  de«r»  yoH  are  better  ?  " 


THE    WEDDING  NIGHT, 


131 


"Y<m  here  still,  Kathie?"  he  said  feeblj.  *■  Havc  yoa 
Acrer  been  to  bed  at  all  ?  " 

"  No,  Sir  John,"  Mr.  Otis  interrupted,  coming  forward ;  "  and 
I  roust  beg  of  you  to  use  your  influence  to  send  her  there, 
Her  long  vigil  has  quite  worn  her  out,  but  she  would  not 
leave  you." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  him. 

*'I  will  go  now,  papa.  Mr.  Otis  and  Mrs.  Harrison  wiO  fli^ 
irith  you.     I  do  feel  a  little  tired,  I  admit." 

Sir  John's  attack  seemed  but  slight,  after  all.  He  kept  hii 
bed  all  next  day,  but  on  the  third  was  able  to  sit  up. 

"And  I  don't  see  any  necessity  for  postponing  our  wedding, 
{Catherine,"  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree  said.  **  Since  by  New  Year's 
Eve  Sir  John  will  be  almost  completely  restored." 

*'  But  he  will  not  be  able  to  drive  to  the  church  with  me, 
Gaston,"  Katherine  argued.  "  Dr.  Graves  will  not  permit  him 
to  leave  the  house  for  a  fortnight,  and  besides,  the  excitement." 

"  Katherine,"  her  lover  internipted  decidedly,  "  I  will  w^ 
have  our  marriage  postponed — the  most  unlucky  thing  con- 
ceivable. If  the  governor  isn't  able  to  go  to  church  at  Castle- 
ford,  and  give  you  away,  nrhy  let's  have  the  ceremony  here  in 
the  house.  If  the  mountain  can't  come  to  Mahomet,  why 
Ml  homet  can  go  to  >iie  mountain.  A  wedding  in  the  house 
Is  a  vast  deal  ple^ianter  to  my  mind  than  in  public  at  Castle- 
ford,  with  all  the  tagrag  of  the  parish  agape  at  the  bride  and 
groom,  and  all  Castleford  barracks  clanking  their  spurred 
heels  and  steel  scabbards  up  the  aisles,  putting  us  out  of  coun- 
tenance." 

Katherine  laughed. 

"  My  dear  bashful  Gaston  1  the  first  time  I  ever  dreamed 
that  anything  earthly  could  put  you  out  of  countenance  !  Well, 
ril  ask  papa,  and  it  shall  be  as  he  says." 

Miss  Dangerfield  did  ask  papa,  and  rather  to  her  sorpriir 
received  an  almost  eager  assent. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said  feverishly.  "  Dantree's  right — a  poll 
poned  marriage  is  the  most  unlucky  thing  on  earth.  We  won't 
postpone  it.  Let  it  be  in  the  house  as  he  suggests,  since  my 
driving  with  you  to  church  is  an  impossibility.  Since  it  must 
be  done,  'twere  well  'twere  done  quickly !  Let  the  summer 
drawing-room  be  fitted  up,  and  let  the  ceremony  be  performed 
there." 

Mr,  Peter  Dangerfield  had  been  a  daily  visitor  at  Scarswood 
wivut  his  unc-'s  i]lne^:s     rv  '^('phfw  niorp  devoted,  more 


;,,< 


I       ■:' 


fja 


r://i    H'EDDING  NIGHT, 


acudous  than  he.     The  baroiici  htjtcned  to  his  eager  mqniriet 
ifter  his  heahh,  his  son-like  anxiety,  with  a  cynical  Sfnile. 

"  If  I  were  dead  there  would  be  one  the  less  between  hiii. 
and  the  title — you  understand.     I  have  n^  doubt  Peter  is  i32« 
ious  that — I  should  never  recover." 

"  Something's  hai)pened  to  Peter,  papa,"  /^^g^'eref*  Kathor 
ine  thoughtfully,  "  he's  got  quite  a  new  wr^'  of  talking  ao# 
carrying  himself  of  late.  He  looks  as  if  some  great  good  ftrt 
line  had  befallen  him.      Now  what  do  you  suppose  it  can  be?*" 

"Great  good  fortune,"  Sir  John  repeated,  with  ratbei  a 
ftartled  face.  "  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken,  Katherine.  1 
wonder,"  very  slowly  this,  "  if — if  he — has  been  in  communica- 
tion with  Mrs.  Vavasor  since  her  departure." 

For  Mrs.  Vavasor's  presence  in  Castlcford  waa  still  a  pro- 
found secret.  She  had  taken  lodgings  in  the  lemotest  and 
quietest  suburb  of  the  town.  She  never  ventured  abroad  by 
day,  and  had  assumed  an  alias.  She  and  Mr.  Dangerfield  kept 
tryst  in  the  evenings,  in  lonely  lanes  and  deserted  places,  and 
no  one  save  himself  dreamed  of  her  presence. 

But  three  days  now  to  the  wedding  day,  and  those  three  fiew 
apace.  It  had  been  arranged  that  since,  contrary  to  all  prece- 
dent, the  marriage  was  to  be  performed  at  Scarswood,  it  should 
also  take  place  in  the  e^'ening,  to  be  followed,  in  the  good  old- 
fashioned  way,  by  a  supper  and  ball,  and  the  bridal  party  start 
next  day  for  the  Continent.  The  hour  was  fixed  for  ten,  and 
half  the  county  invited. 

oir  John's  progress  tow<ird  strength  was  very  slow.  Some 
secret  anxiety  seemed  preying  on  his  mind  and  keeping  him 
back.  He  watched  his  idolized  darling  flying  up  and  down 
Btairs,  dashing,  b/ight  as  the  sunshine  itself,  in  and  out  of  ^e 
room,  singing  like  a  skylark  in  her  perfect  bliss,  and  he  shrank 
I  tnn  the  sight  as  though  it  gave  him  positive  pain. 

"  How  can  I  tell  her  ?  "  I  e  thought ;  '*  how  "an  T  tvei  tc^ 
\m.  ?    And  yet  I  ought — I  ought." 

Once  or  twice  he  feebly  made  the  attempt,  but  K^Jieriae 
|hut  him  down  immediately  in  lier  decioed  way 

"  Not  a  word  now.  papa — 1  won't  have  it.  I  don't  want  to 
hcAT  any  nasty,  annoying  secrets  two  days  before  my  wedding, 
and  have  my  peace  of  mind  disturbed  in  this  way.  If  I've  got 
to  hear  this  disagreeable  thing,  let  me  wait  until  the  honey- 
moon is  over — Gaston  will  help  me  bear  it  then — you  tried  to 
feell  me  Christmas  Eve,  and  brought  on  a  fit  of  apoplexy ;  and 
HOW,  contrary  to  all  medical  commands,  you  want  to  begin  ove» 


ig  aitf 

d  fua 

Ltbei  a 
ne.     1 

lunica^ 

a  pro- 

;st  and 
oad  by 
Id  kept 
es,  and 

ec  fictv 
prece- 
should 
od  old- 
ty  start 
>n,  and 

Some 

ig  him 
down 
of  the 

[shrank 

rei  teH 

^ant  to 

ling, 

|ve  got 

lonejr- 

fied  to 

and 

|DOV«l 


T^£    WEDDING  SIGHT. 


»3J 


igaiR,  taA  bi^g  on  another.  Hut  I'm  mistress  of  the  siti^.^liai 
at  present,  and  I  won't  listen.  So  ^et  your  mii:G  t*:  rest,  an<$ 
don't  wear  that  gloomy  countenance  on  the  evu*  of  your  onlj 
daughter's  marriage." 

He  was  too  feeble  to  resist.  He  held  her  to  him  a  moment 
and  looked  into  the  happy  young  face  with  a  weary  sigh. 

"  I  siippose  few  fathers  look  very  joyous  on  the  eve  of  an 
mily  daughtei's  marriage,  and  I  have  greater  reation  than  yoL- 
Iream  of  tc  look  gloomy.  Hut  let  it  be  as  you  say — let  ur 
postpone  the  evil  hour  as  long  as  we  can." 

The  last  day  came — the  day  before  New  Year's  Eve.  The 
bride  elect  had  been  busier  even  than  usual  ail  day.  Mr. 
Dantree  dined  and  spent  the  evening  there  alone.  They  were 
both  very  grave,  very  quiet — that  long,  peaceful  evening,  the 
last  of  her  youth  and  her  happiness,  never  faded  from  the  girl's 
memory.  The  picture,  as  she  saw  it  then,  haunted  her  to  her 
dying  hour — the  big,  lamplit  drawing-room — her  father's  quiet 
figure  l3ring  back  in  his  easy  chair  before  the  fire — her  lover  at 
die  piano  playinp  soft  melancholy  airs,  and  she  herself  nestling 
in  a  dormeuse,  listening  to  the  music,  and  his  whispered  words 
— the  "  sweet  nothings  "  of  courtship.  She  followed  him  out 
into  the  grand  portico  entrance  of  the  house  to  say  good-by  for 
the  last  time.  The  cold,  white  moon  sailed  up  the  azure,  the 
stars  were  numberless,  the  trees  cast  long,  black  shadows  in  the 
ivory  light.  The  night  air  sighed  faintly  in  the  woodland, 
something  in  the  still,  solemn  beauty  of  the  dying  night  filled 
the  girl's  heart  with  a  sense  almost  of  pain. 

"The  sun  will  shine  to-morrow,"  Gaston  whispered  ;  "and 
'  blessed  is  the  bnde  that  the  sun  shines  on  I '  Good-night, 
my  darling,  for  the  last  time." 

He  held  her  in  his  arms  a  moment — for  the  last  time ! 

The  last  time  !  And  no  foreboding — of  all  that  was  so  near 
at  hand  came  to  her  as  she  stood  there. 

The  promise  of  the  night  did  not  hold  good.  Mr.  Dantrce^s 
prediction  as  to  the  sunshine  was  not  destined  to  be  fulfilled. 
New  Year's  Eve  dawned  cloudy,  cold,  and  overcast.  A  long 
lamentable  blast  soughed  up  tVoni  the  sea,  the  low-lying  sky 
frowned  darkly  over  the  black,  frost  bound  rarth. 

"We're  going  to  have  a  storm,"  Sir  John  said  ;  "our  guestf 
■lUSt  reach  us  through  a  tempest  to-night." 

The  storm  broke  at  noon — rain,  sleet,  and  roaring  wind 
iCatherine  shivered  as  she  listened  to  the  wild  wliisiling  of  l*- 
Blast.     She,  usually  the  least  tNTv>.\is  av-A  '5'1perstit■,^>  is  of  hu 


i 


<)4 


TUB    WEDD/m,    SIGHT. 


ill 


beingd,  felt  little  cold  chills  creeping  over  her,   u  she 
harkfnc)!  to  its  wintry  howls. 

•'  It  sounds  like  the  cry  of  a  banshee,"  she  said,  with  a  shud 
4er,  to  Edith  Talbol.  "Such  a  wild,  black,  sleet>,  wrctchcO 
winter  day  !  And  last  night  ihert*  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky  i 
Edith,  do  yoL  believe  in  omens  ?  " 

•■  I  believe  this  is  a  disagrecai^Ie  day,  as  it  is  in  the  nature  o» 
l^cceniber  days  to  be,  and  that  yt)U  are  a  nervous  goose  for  th^ 
irst  time  in  your  life.  You  don'l  suppose  Mr.  Dantree  is  sugai 
or  salt  to  njclt  in  the  rain,  or  a  fealliei  {^)X  tiic  wind  to  bio* 
away.  DonU  be  so  restless  and  fidgety,  Kathie,  or  you'll  make 
me  as  nervous  as  yourself." 

The  short,  dark,  winter  aftt.rr.jon  dragged  on. 

With  the  fall  of  the  night  the  storm  seemed  to  increase. 
The  roar  of  the  winds  deep>ened  ;  the  dull  thunder  of  the  surf 
on  the  shore  reached  them ;  the  trees  waved  in  the  high  gale 
like  human  things  in  pain ;  and  the  ceaseless  sleet  lashed  the 
glass. 

"  An  awftil  night  for  a  wedding,"  even  the  servants  whispered 
**  No  wonder  poor  Miss  Katherine  looks  like  a  ghost." 

She  was  pale  beyond  all  llie  ordinary  pallor  of  bridehood- 
strangely  restless,  strangely  silent. 

Darkness  ^  11,  the  whole  house  was  lit  ui) ;  flowers  bloomed 
everywhere  as  though  it  had  been  midsummer :  warmt!)  and 
luxury  everywhere  within  contrasted  with  the  travail  of  the 
dying  year.  Under  the  hands  of  her  maid,  Katherine  sat  pas- 
sive to  all  changes.  The  supreme  hour  of  her  life  had  conic, 
and  in  eveiy  wail  of  wind,  every  ilasli  of  the  frozen  rain,  she 
seemed  tt-  hear  the  warning  words  of  her  oM  nurse  :  False  as 
Cair  1     False  as  fair  1 

Eight  o'clock.  The  Kector  of  Castleford  and  his  curate  had 
Arrived.  Nine  I  The  musicians  iiad  conie,  and  the  earliest  of 
liMt  nuptial  gntists  ;  the  roll  of  carriages  could  be  heard  through 
'.hi  tumult  of  the  storm.  Half  past  nine  !  And  "I  wonder  if 
Ga»ton  K^s  yet  arrived  ?"   Katherine  said. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken  for  over  an  hour.  Flei 
attendant  bridesmaids,  five  besicjes  Miss  Talbot,  were  all  there. 
The  dressing-rooms  were  briglit  with  fair  girls,  lloating  tulle  and 
iaces,  and  fragrant  with  flov^'ers.  Miss  Talbot  and  the  I"rench 
maid  were  alone  with  the  bride.  The  last  touch  had  been 
fiven  to  the  toilet.  The  rob«:  of  dead-white  silk  swept  in  iti 
"ichnesa  far  behind,  the  tail,  slim  figure  looked  taller  and  sliiu 
.j:-**  than  ever,  the  virginal  orange  blossoms    rovmcd  the  long 


I 


I 


m  sht 

,  shud 
etcheO 
e  sky  I 

turo  o' 
for  th^ 
8  sugaj 
o  bio* 
ilroake 


icreasc. 
he  surf 
gh  gale 
led  thf 

ispered 

phood-- 

iloome^ 
ntl)  and 

of  the 
sat  pasr- 
3  conic, 
ain>  she 

'alse  afl 

rate  had 
rliest  of 

|throu£|h 
mder  if 

Hei 

III  theie. 

lillc  and 
Irench 

Id  been 

)t  in  iti 

id  slisii 

long; 


TMB   WRDDING  SIGOT, 


■3S 


l|ht4)roim  hair,  the  bridal  veil  floated  like  a  mist  over  aK 
The  last  jewel  was  placed,  the  last  libbon  tied,  ihe  last  fall  of 
ace  arrange<l  She  stood  before  the  mirror  fair,  pale,  peniivf 
^-a  bride  ready  for  the  altar. 

A  quarter  of  ten  !  Tl  e  Swiss  clock,  telling  of  the  quarterly 
ttartled  them.  How  the  moments  tiew — how  fast  the  gaeitf 
irere  arriving  through  the  storm.  The  roll  of  carriages  was  al* 
most  incessant  now,  and  lifting  her  dreamy  eyes  Katherine  re^ 
peatcd  her  inquiry  :  "  I  wonder  if  (iaston  has  come?" 

"What  a  question!''  cried  Miss  Talbot.  "A  bridegrooro 
late,  and  that  bridegroom  Mr.  Dantreeof  all  men.  Of  course, 
he  has  come,  and  is  waiting  in  a  fever  of  impatience  down- 
flairs.     Ninon,  nm  and  see." 

The  French  girl  went,  and  came  flying  back  breathlessly. 

"  Mademoiselle,  how  strange.  Monsieur  Dantree  has  not 
irrived.  Monseigneur,  the  abb6,  is  ready  and  waiting — all 
the  guests  are  assembled,  but  mon  Dieu  I  the  bridegroom  is 
Ute  ! " 

Miss  Talbot  looked  at  her  friend.  Neither  spoke  nor  moved. 
The  flock  of  bridesmaids,  a  "  rose-bud  garden  of  girls,"  came 
floating  in  with  their  misty  drapery,  their  soft  voices  and  sub- 
Jued  laughter.     It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  the  wedding  hour. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Ninon  opened  it,  and  old  Sir 
/ohn,  white  as  ashes  and  trembling  on  his  stafi^  entered  and 
approached  his  daughter. 

"  Katherine,  Dantree  has  not  come." 

"  I  know  it,  father.     Something  has  happened." 

Her  voice  was  quite  steady,  but  a  gray,  ashen  terror  blanched 
her  face. 

"  Had  you  not  better  send  to  Morecambe  ?  "  Edith  Talbot 
interposed.  "  He  was  quite  well  when  I  left  this  morning. 
Has  George  arrived  ?  " 

"  Your  brother  is  here,  Miss  Talbot" 

"  And  what  docs  he  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing  to  the  point.  Before  dark  Dantree  left  him  to  go 
20  his  room  and  dress.  Your  brother  when  starting  for  here 
•cnt  him  word,  and  found  his  room  deserfcd.  Taking  it  foi 
granted  he  wished  to  be  alone,  and  had  left  for  Scarswood  be- 
fore him,  your  brother  came  over  at  once.  He  was  astonished 
v^en  he  arrived  at  not  finding  him  here." 

And  then  dead  silence  fell.     W^hat  did  it  mean  ? 

Below  the  guests  ha^i  gathered  in  groups,  whispering  (>:- 
noMsly ;  in  t>.^  «  bridal  bower  "  bride  and  bridesmaids  looU?    4. 


^ 


l^ 


rHE    TELLING    OF    -"k  E    SECKBT, 


each  other's  pale  faces  and  rvever  si)oke.  One  bjr  one  tiM 
moments  told  off.  A  ({luirttr  past  ten,  and  still  no  bride 
groom  I 

Then  all  at  once  wheels  dushcd  up  to  the  door — in  the  en 
tiance  hall  there  was  the  sndden  bustle  of  an  arrival  Kathe 
rine's  heart  gave  one  gre^\  bound  ;  and  Edith  Talbot,  unAb]« 
lo  endure  the  suspense,  '..nubl-;  to  look  at  her  friend's  torture'' 
lace,  turned  and  ran  out  of  the  "ooin. 

"  Wait  I "  she  said.     "  I  wilt  be  back  in  a  moment." 

She  flew  down  the  stairs.  Some  one  had  arrived — a  gentile 
man — but  not  Oaston  Dantree.  The  new-comer,  pale,  breath 
less,  eager,  was  only  Peter  Dangerfield. 

But  he  might  bring  news — he  looked  as  though  he  did.  Shf 
vas  by  his  side  in  a  moment,  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said.  "  Has  anything  happened  to  Mr. 
Dantree?" 

"Yes,  Dangerfield,"  exclaimed  Captain  I)e  Vere,  coming 
forward.  "As  second  best  man  I  have  a  right  to  know. 
Shorten  the  agony,  if  possible,  and  out  with  it.  What's  up  ? 
The  hour  is  past  and  the  bride  is  waiting,  where  the  Divu  ii 
(he  bridegroom  ?  " 


CHAPTER   XII. 


THK  TILLING  Ot   THE  SKCRKT. 


jHERE  was  the  bridegroom  ? 

Gaston  Dantree  bade  good-by  to  Katherine  Dangei 
field,  and  rode  down  that  noble  avenue  of  emis  leadini 
to  the  ponderous  gates.     His  horse's  footsteps  ranj 
clear  and  sharp  through  the  still,  frosty  air,  the  silvery  mist  o« 
moonlight  bathed  all  things  in  its  pale,  mystic  glow. 

He  paused  an  instant  to  look  back,  ere  he  rode  away.  What 
a  fair  domain  it  was — what  a  stately  sweep  of  park,  and  glade, 
ftnd  woodland — fairer  than  ever  in  the  pearly  light  of  the  Chrit^ 
nms  moon.  How  noble  the  old  house  looked,  with  its  turrets 
its  peaked  gables,  its  massive  stack  of  chimneys.  And  t© 
'oorrow  ail  thus  would  be — his — he  an  outcast  of  the  New  York 


jtraets. 


-w., 


THP.    r FILING    OF    VHP    SKCMKT. 


13; 


)ridr 

it  en 
:athe 

rtwe*' 


gentle 
ncath 

.    Shf 

to  Mr. 

:oming 

know. 

t's  up? 

IBVIL  ii 


iangei 

|leAdin$ 
)s  rani 
I  mist  ut 

Whai 
glade, 

iturreU 
ind  to 


He  laoghed  softl),  exultantly  to  hini«ie1f,  as  he  turned  and 
rode  siriftly  away. 

"It's  better  to  be  born  lucky  than  rich-  it's  better  to  oc 
bom  handsome  than  hicky.  A  clear  complexion  and  a  set  ol 
regular  features,  a  tenor  voice,  and  insinuating  n»anners  h^ve 
done  more  for  me  than  they  do  for  most  men.  'I'hey  havw 
made  my  fortune.  Half  the  men  and  women  in  the  world  art 
fools  at  best,  and  don't  know  how  to  use  the  gifts  with  whicli 
nature  endows  them.  I  was  born  in  the  gutter,  brought  u[ 
In  the  streets,  adopted  out  of  charity,  turned  out  for  my  short- 
comings, to  starve,  or  steal,  to  go  to  State  prison,  or — become 
the  literary  hack  of  a  sporting  paper,  ill-paid,  and  ill-used. 
And  now — to-morrow  is  my  wedding  day,  and  a  baronet'i 
daughter  and  the  heiress  of  eight  thousand  a  year  to  be  my 
bride.  Gaston  Dantree,  1  congratulate  you  again,  and  still 
again,  you're  one  of  the  very  cleverest  fellows  I  ever  knew 
in  the  whole  course  of  my  life." 

And  then,  as  Mr.  Dant'-ee  rode  over  the  moonlit  high- 
road, he  astonished  belated  wayfarers  by  uplifting  his  voice 
in  melody,  so  sweet  and  clear,  that  even  the  sleeping 
nightingales,  had  there  been  any  in  December,  might  have 
awakened  to  listen  and  envy.  The  wheels  of  the  world  were 
greased  on  their  axles  for  him.  A  bride  and  a  fortune,  and 
a  life  of  perpetual  pleasure  lay  beyond  to-morrow's  sunrise. 
There  was  only  one  thorn  in  all  his  bed  of  roses — Marie. 

*'  If  she  should  come,  after  all !  and  Satan  himself  I  believe 
can  never  tell  what  a  woman  may  do.  You  may  be  as  certain 
as  that  you  live  she  will  take  one  course,  and  ten  to  one  she 
takes  the  direct  opposite.  For  Marie  De  Lansac  to  pursue  any 
man,  though  he  sat  on  the  throne  of  the  Caesars,  is  the  most 
nnlikely  thing  on  earth,  and  for  that  very  reason  she  may  turn 
ip  now  If  she  should  appear  to-morrow,  and  forbid  the 
>anns  \  Such  things  happen  sometimes.  Or,  if  she  should  turn 
ip  a  year  hence,  and  proclaim  my  secret  and  her  wrongs! 
JUld  bigamy's  a  devilish  ugly  word  !  " 

The  snadov;  of  the  avenger  pursued  Mr.  Dantree  into 
dreamland.  His  vision^  this  ante-nuptial  night  were  all  dark 
and  ominous.  He  fell  asleep,  to  see  the  face  of  the  woman 
he  feared,  dark  and  menacing ;  he  awoke,  and  fell  asleep 
again,  to  see  it  pallid  and  despairing,  wild  with  woman's  utnwst 
woe.  He  started  out  of  bed  at  last,  at  some  abnormal  hour 
in  the  dismal  dawn,  with  a  curse  upon  his  lips.  Sleeping  or 
WBkiDgi  the  Cace  of  Mane  De  Lansac  haunted  him  like  as 


i,HV- 


n« 


THE  TF.r.Lit^G  r^  r»p  secret 


)' 


•il: 


l!  •  ''iiV 


11 


avenging  ^ost.  The  stomi  haci  come  with  the  new  «,vy  — j8u« 
smd  sleet  beat  the  glass,  the  wind  howled  dismahy  abound 
the  house  and  up  and  down  the  draagll^y  passages.  Mr. 
DsMHree  scowled  at  the  distant  prospect — atr»iO*pheric  influ- 
ences did  not  affect  him  much  as  a  rule,  but  they  aiTected  him 
to-dxy  I  suppose  the  least  sensitive  of  human  beings  like* 
bright  sunshine,  balmy  breezes,  and  cloudless  skies  for  his 
^reading  day.  Mr.  Dantree  cursed  the  weather — cursed  the 
pursuing  memory  that  drove  him  from  his  bed — cursed  his  own 
forty  in  letting  superstitious  fears  trouble  him,  and  havinj^ 
finished  his  litany,  produced  a  smoke-colored  bottle  of  French 
brandy,  a  case  ot  manillas,  and  flung  himself  into  an  easy 
cnair  before  the  still  smouldering  fire.  He  primed  himself  with 
tau  de  vie  until  the  breakfast  bell  rang,  and  then  descended 
to  meet  his  host  and  his  sister,  and  get  the  vapors  of  the  night 
dispelled  in  their  society. 

Miss  Talbot  departed  for  Scarswood  almost  immediately 
*fter  breakfast.  Mr.  Dantree  escorted  her  to  the  carriage,  and 
moodily  watched  her  drive  away. 

"I  suppose  I  am  to  give  your  love  to  Katherine?"  the 
young  lady  said,  gayly ;  "  and  I  suppose  we  won't  see  you 
until  the  hour.  Try  and  wear  a  less  dolorow  face-  signor, 
when  you  do  present  yourself  It's  a  serious  occasion,  beyoD  \ 
doubt,  but  not  even  matrimony  can  warrant  so  gloomy  a  coun- 
tenance as  that." 

How  the  long  interminable  hours  of  tha/  day  wore  on,  Gas- 
ton Dantree  never  afterward  knew.  Something  was  going  to 
happen — he  simply  felt  that — what,  he  did  not  know.  Marie 
m^t  come,  or  she  might  not ;  but  whether  or  no,  something 
would  happen.  The  dark  sleety  hours  dragged  slowly  along 
— he  smoked  furiously — he  drank  more  brandy  than  was  at  all 
prudent  or  usual  for  bridegrooms — he  went  in  and  out  in  a 
restless  fever,  that  would  not  let  him  sit  down.  He  paced  u]) 
tnd  down  the  leafless  aisles,  the  sleet  driving  sharply  in  his 
&ce,  the  keen  wind  piercing  him,  for  he  was  of  a  chilly  nature. 
Were  presentiments  true  ?  None  had  ever  troubled  him  before. 
Was  it  a  guilty  conscience  ?  It  was  the  first  time  he  ever 
realized  he  had  a  conscience  ;  or  was  it  a  worse  demon  than 
eitlher — the  gloomy  fiend  of — indigestion  ? 

"A  sluggish  liver  has  made  men  blow  their  brains  out  be- 
fore now,  and  a  dyspeptic  stomach  has  seen  ghosts.  Presenti- 
ments are  sentimental  humbugs — it's  the  heavy  dinners  at 
Scarswood,  and  the  French  cookery  at  Morecambej  combined 


TmH    TRLLTNG   OP    Tf^F  SF(fff>T 


\Vi 


abound 
s.  Mr. 
ic  influ- 
:ted  him 
>gs  like» 

for  his 
rsed  the 

his  own 
I  having 

French 
an  easy 
self  with 
jscended 
the  night 

i«diately 
age,  and 

e?"  the 
see  you 
i-  signor, 
,  beyonl 
T  a  coun- 

on,  Gas- 
going  to 
Marie 
)mething 
r\y  along 
iras  at  all 
out  in  a 

aced  11]) 
y  in  his 

nature, 
before. 

he  ever 

on  than 

out  be- 

^^resenti- 

mers  at 

>mbiii«4 


litfi  a  leaden  sky,  and  a  nnserable  Decenibcr  day.  If  the 
Infernally  long  day  were  end  2d,  and  this  huiu  co::i^,  1  shoult? 
feel  all  right,  I  know.*' 

His  host  watched  him  curiously  from  the  window,  wander 
Sng  about  in  the  storm  like  an  unquiet  spirit.  Bridegrooms 
may  be  restless  as  a  rule  on  the  hap}>y  day,  but  not  such  rest 
tessness  as  this. 

"There  s  something  on  that  fellovt'*s  rnind,"  the  young  Susfc* 
fquire  thought,  "-tte  has  the  look  to-day  of  a  man  who  if 
a/raidf  and  I  don't  think  he's  a  coward  as  a  rule.  I've  thought 
from  the  first  this  marriage  would  be  a  deucedly  bad  job,  and 
it's  no  end  of  a  pity.  She's  such  a  tmnip  of  a  girl — httle 
Kathie — no  nonsense  about  har,  you  know ,  rides  to  hounds 
like  a  bom  Nimrod-ess,  dances  like  a  fairy,  plucky,  and  thor- 
oughbred from  top  to  toe  And  she's  going  to  throw  herself 
away  on  this  duffer,  for  no  reason  under  heaven  but  that  he's 
*ot  a  good-looking  face.  Hang  it  all !  Why  did  I  ever  f«tch 
him  down  to  Morecambe,  or  why  need  K.athcrine  Dangerfield 
be  such  a  little  fool  ?  Who's  to  tell  us  the  fellow  hasn't  a  wife 
already  out  in  New  Orleans  ?  " 

Sometime  after  noon  the  bridegroom  elect  flung  himself  on 
his  bed  and  fell  heavily  asleep.  He  did  not  dream  this  time  ; 
he  slept — for  hours — the  beneficial  effect  of  French  brandy, 
no  doubt  The  short  dark  day  had  faded  entirely  out — the 
candles  were  lit,  and  Squire  Talbot's  man  stood  over  him  ad- 
luring  him  to  rise. 

"  Beg  parding,  sir,  for  disturbing  you,  but  master's  borders, 
rir,  and  it's  'alf  after  six,  Mr.  Dantree,  sir,  and  time,  niaster 
says,  to  get  up  and  dress.  And  master's  borders,  sir,  is,  that 
I'm  to  bassist  you." 

Mr.  Dantree  leaped  from  the  bed.  Half  past  six,  and  time 
to  dress.  No  r^ore  endless  hours,  to  think  and  fidget, — tha^ 
was  a  comfort,  at  least. 

"How's  the  weather,  now,  Lewis?"  he  asked.  '*StonF 
held  up  any  ?  No — I  see  it  has  not— rather  v/orsc,  if  anything. 
y/here's  the  squire  ?  " 

"  In  his  hapartment,  sir — dressing,  sir.  Permit  me  to  do 
that,  Mr.  Dantree,  sir — if  you  please.  Dinner's  to  be  arf  au 
hour  later  than  husual,  sir,  on  this  occasion — you'll  'ave  just 
time  to  dress  and  no  more." 

Lewis  was  au  adept  in  his  business.  At  halfpact  seven  Mr 
Dantree  descended  to  dinner  iii  full  evening  suit — white  waisi 


I4* 


THP.     TELLING    OP    THH    SECRET, 


W' 


l-M 


|i    1  ■   i 


^Kamond  studs,   dress  coat,  shiny  boots — rob«d  for  tfit 
lacrifice  I 

He  auid  the  squire  dined  tite-Ont^e.  Neither  ate  much — botli 
were  nervous  and  silent. 

"What the  deuce  ever  r»adc  me  bring  the  fellow  down?"  the 
iquire  kept  thinking,  moodily,  casting  gloomy  glances  athwar* 
he  tall  epergne  of  flowers  between  them.  And  "  Will  any- 
thing happen  after  all  ?  "  the  bridegroom  kept  saying  over  anc 
jver;  "will  the  heirefis  of  Scarswood  be  my  wife  to-morrow 
mcMTiing,  or  will  something  i)revent  it  at  the  eleventh  hour,  and 
expose  me.     It  would  be  just  my  usual  infernal  luck." 

He  went  back  to  his  room  after  dinner.  They  had  not 
lingered,  and  it  was  still  only  eight  o'clock.  A  quarter  before 
ten  would  be  early  enough  to  arrive  at  Scarswood,  and  run  the 
gauntlet  of  threescore  curious  eyes,  "  I  wish  it  were  over,' 
he  exclaimed,  aloud,  almost  savagely.  "  I  wouldn't  undergo 
such  an  ordeal  again  for  all  the  heiresses  in  Great  Britain." 

**  It  is  a  nervous  business,"  a  voice  in  the  doorway  re- 
oponded  ;  **  but  take  courage.  There's  many  a  slip,  you  know, 
and  though  it  wants  but  two  hours  to  the  time,  you  may  escape 
the  matrimonial  noose  after  all." 

Gaston  Dantree  swung  round  with  an  oath.  There,  fci  the 
doorway,  stood  Peter  Dangerfield. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Dantree,"  the  lawyer  said,  glibly, 
cr»<ning  in,  and  shutting  the  door.  "  You  don't  look  best  pleased 
to  see  me,  but  that  is  not  to  be  wondered  at." 

"  Where  the  devil  did  you  spring  from  ?  "  Mr.  Dantree  de- 
manded, angrily. 

"I  sprang  from  nowhere — I've  given  up  gymnastics.  1 
drove  over  from  Castleford,  in  the  rain,  on  important  businesf 
— important  business  to  you.  A  quarter  past  eight,"  he  dre\» 
SMit  his  watcli,  "  and  I  see  you  are  all  dressed  for  the  ceremony 
That  gives  us  an  hour  and  three  quarters — plenty  of  time  foi 
irhat  I  want  you  to  do." 

"  What — you — want — me — to — do  !  Mr.  Dangeifield,  I 
confess  I  am  at  a  loss  to — " 

"  To  understand  me — exa  ctly — quite  natural  that  you  should 
and  all  that.  I'll  explain.  Circumstances  have  come  jo  ligh* 
concerning  Sir  Jahn  Dangerfield  and — well — and  the  young 
lady  you  are  going  to  marry.  As  a  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Dan- 
tree; I  consider  it  would  be  a  shameful  deception  to  let  the 
marriage  go  on  whil;  you  are  in  ignorance  of  those  circiunstancea. 
Sr,  yoo    hare    been   grossly  deceived— ipe  have  all   been, 


TBR    TRUJf^a   OF   TfTF    ^P.CIt/fT. 


Mi 


■  tht 
•botki 

"the 

hwar* 
any- 
I  anc 
orrow 
r.  and 


•d  not 
before 
in  the 
over,* 
idergc 
I." 

ay  re- 
know, 
escape 


fci  the 

glibly, 
)leased 


ee 


de- 


cs.    1 

asinesf 
e  dre^ 
mony 
me  foi 

eld,    J 

should 
>  ligh* 
young 
.  Dan- 
et  the 

nces. 

been« 


aid — but  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  explain.  Thereby  hangs  a 
tale,  and  all  that — which  I  don't  wish  to  telL  The  person  who 
told  me  is  waiting  at  Castleford  to  tell  you.  1  drcTc  here  al 
oiic« — my  trap  is  waiting  outside  now.  T  made  my  waf  te 
yoor  room  miannounced.  I  know  the  house,  and  I  want  yo<3 
to  put  on  your  hat  and  great-coat,  and  come  with  me  to  CastH 
tford  at  once." 

Gaston  Dantree  stood  very  pale,  listening  to  this  lengthy 
and  rapid  harangue.  His  presentiments  were  all  true,  then — 
Kxnething  was  going  to  occur.  At  the  last  hour  the  glittering 
prize  for  which  he  had  fought  and  won  was  to  be  snatched 
from  him.  His  lips  were  set  hard,  and  there  was  t  dull  red 
glow  not  good  to  see  in  his  black  eyes.  But  he  kept  his  tem- 
per— under  all  circumstances  it  was  the  rule  of  his  life  to  keep 
that 

"  Mr.  Dangerfield,"  he  said,  "  wU  you  be  so  good  as  to  open 
the  mysteries  a  little  ?  Your  speech  sounds  melodramatic — 
and  I  don't  care  for  melo-drama  off  the  boards.     Why  am  I  to 

rto  Castleford?     What  are  the  circumstances?     Whom  am 
to  meet  ? — and  how  have  we  all  been  deceived  ?     Do  you 
wish  to  insinuate  anything  against  Miss  Dangerfield  ^  " 

"  Not  a  word — not  a  syllable.  She  is  blameless  and  I  don't 
wish  to  stop  your  marriage — Heaven  forbid  !  No  one  will  wvsh 
you  joy,  two  hours  hence,  when  the  ceremony  is  over,  more 
sincerely  than  I." 

Gaston  Dantree  looked  at  him,  staggered  a  little.  The  mar 
riage  was  not  to  be  stopped,  then.  He  drew  a  long  tens' 
breath  of  reliel 

"  This  is  all  very  strange.  I  wish  you  would  explain.  I'll  go 
with  you  to  Castleford — it  will  kill  the  intervening  time  as  wefi 
as  anjrthing  else — but,  I'd  rather  not  go  in  the  dark." 

"  You  must.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Dantree,  it  is  necessaiy. 
It  is  impossible  for  me  to  tell  you — I  am  bound  by  oath 
Come  with  me — come !  I  swear  you  shall  be  at  Scarswood  by 
ten  o'clock." 

For  a  moment  Dantree  stood  irreei>.ute.  Then  curiosity 
overcame  every  other  feeling.  He  seized  his  hat  aad  coat  with 
A  slight  laugh. 

"  Be  it  so,  then.  Lead  on,  as  they  say  in  novels,  I  follow — 
aod  my  good  fellow,  drive  like  the  very  deuce." 

He  ran  Hghtly  downstairs — Peter  Dangerfield  followed 
There  was  a  flush  on  the  lawyer's  sallow  parchment  cheeks,  a 
kre  ifi  his  dim,  near-sighted  eyes,  all  xinusual  there.     They  met 


If 


/4^ 


rffP    TFJUI^G    OF    TUP   SFCRRT. 


naoD^  The  squire  was  still  in  his  '*  hapartment, '  the  servAnta 
were  busy.  The  gig  lamps  of  Mr.  Dangcrfield's  trap  -oomed  liie 
two  fiery  ryes  in  the  stormy  blackness.  Dantree  leaped  in, 
Dangerfield  followed,  snatched  up  the  reins,  and  sped  away 
like  the  vdnd 

It  was  a  dead,  silent  drive.  It  was  all  Peter  DangcrfieU' 
ceuld  do  to  hold  the  reins  and  make  his  way  through  the  doubU 
darkness  of  night  and  storm.  Gaston  Dantree  sat  wiih  foldeA 
Aims  waiting.  What  was  he  to  hear  ? — where  was  he  going  ? 
—whom  was  he  to  see  ?  A  strange  adventure  this,  surely,  on  a 
nan's  wedding  night. 

The  lights  of  Castleford  gleamed  through  the  sleet,  the  dull 
cannonading  of  the  sea  on  the  coast  came  to  them  ?bove  the 
ihrieks  of  the  wind.  In  five  minutes  they  had  driven  up  before 
an  inn  : — the  two  men  sprang  out,  a  hostler  took  charge  of  the 
•onveyance,  and  Peter  Dangerfield,  with  a  brief  "  This  way, 
Dantree/'  sprang  swiftly  up  the  stairs,  and  rapped  at  a  door  on 
ihe  first  landing. 

'^t  was  opened  instantly,  and  Gaston  Dantree  saw — Mrs. 
Vavasor. 

5hc  was  magnificently  dressed  to-night.  A  rich  robe  ol 
^Mirple  silk,  en  irainey  swept  behind  her — diamonds  flashed  on 
Aeck  and  fingers — and  white  perfumy  roses  nestled  in  the 
glossy  masses  of  satin  black  hair.  The  rouge  bloomed  its 
brightest,  the  enamel  glittered  with  alabaster  dazzle,  the  almond 
eyes  were  longer,  brighter,  blacker  than  ever,  and  that  peculiar 
9mile  on  her  squirrel-shaped  mouth  was  never  so  radiant  before. 

**  You  diJ  not  expect  to  see  me,  Mr.  Dantree,  did  you  ? 
You  didn't  know  I  have  been  in  Castleford  a  whole  week 
And  I've  come  for  the  wedding  all  the  way  from  Paris.  » 
crossed  the  channel  at  the  risk  of  expiring  in  the  agonies  of  sea 
Ackness,  I  braved  your  beastly  British  climate,  I  have  burieo 
nyself  alive  a  \iHiole  week  here,  without  a  soul  to  speak  to — 
ill — to  be  present  at  Katherine  Dangcrfield's  wedding,  if — that 
if  edding  ever  takes  place." 

Mr.  Dantree  looked  at  his  watch,  outwardly,  at  kast,  per- 
fsctly  cool. 

'*It  will  be  an  accomplished  fact  in  one  hour,  madame. 
Ind  there  is  a  good  old  adage  about  its  being  well  to  wait 
antil  you're  asked — wouldn't  it  have  been  better  if  you  had 
remembered  it?  Your  afiectit>n  for  Miss  Dangerfield  doe* 
credit  to  your  hea^  and  heart,  b^i  1  tear  it  is  unreciprocatfni 
She  lavet  you  as  Ok^  N^xk  lov.es  ht>iy  ^atit^" 


r^/?    TFJ.UNG   OF   THE  SRCWBT, 


'41 


F»r«»' 


**  Nertertheless,  1  shall  go  to  her  wedding  ^  told  her  so  imca 
Mid  I  mean  to  keep  my  word,  if — as  I  said  before — th^t  w«a 
4ing  ever  takes  place." 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  co  explawi  ?  " 

He  was  quite  white,  but  braced  to  meet  the  worst  H* 
looked  her  steadily  bet  wee?  ilie  eyes.  She  stood  and  retumecl 
that  gaze  smiling,  silent,  aud  with  a  devil  in  either  glittering 
teye.     For  Peter  Dangerfield,  he  stood  aloof  and  listened 

"What  a  fortunate  fellow  you  are,  Gaston  Dantree,"  Mr* 
Vavasor  said,  after  that  short  pause.  "You  are  the  very  hand 
■omest  man,  I  think,  1  ever  saw  ;  you  are  the  best  singer  ofl 
the  operatic  stage  1  ever  heard :  your  manners  are  perfect  in 
their  insolent  ease  ;  you  are  seven -and-twenty — a  charming 
age — and  you  possess  what  so  seldom  goes  with  beauty,  un- 
happily— ^brains.  The  world  is  your  oyster,  and  you  open  il 
cleverly  ;  you  are  a  penniless  Yankee  adventurer,  and  a  baronet's 
daughter,  and  the  heiress  of  eight  thousand  a  year  is  waiting  at 
Scarswood  to  marry  you  to  night.  Under  what  fortunate  com- 
bination of  the  planets  were  you  born,  I  wonder ;  you  don't 
love  this  young  lady  you  are  going  to  marry ;  but  love  is  an 
exploded  idea — the  stock  in  trade  of  poets  and  novelists. 
People  with  eight  thousand  a  year  can  dispense  with  love  ;  but 
where  the  bride  zrA  groom  *re  both  penniless — oh,  w«»U  !  thaf  f 
another  matter." 

"  M/s.  Vavasor,  it  Is  after  nine  o'clock.  Did  you  hcxid  fo* 
me  to  Lister  lo  a  homily  ?  If  so,  having  Heard  '-,  '^low  we  tc 
take  my  departure." 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Mr.  Dantree — chere's  no  occaskm 
Ten  o'clock  will  come,  but  I  don't  believe  we'll  have  a  wed 
ding  to-night  after  all." 

"You  have  raid  that  three  times!  " — Gaston  Dawtree's  eyei 
were  growing  stern,  and  his  mouth  was  set  in  one  thin  hard  lire 
—the  s^inie  thing  repeated  too  often  grows  a  bore.  Be  kin<i 
fH>ough,  if  you  mean  f  jiything,  to  tell  me  what  you  mean." 

*'  I  wAl  i  I  mean  this,  my  handst'  ne  Louij^ioniaii — that  yom 
brade  eici  i  is  no  more  a  baronet's  daughter — «u;»  oiuie  Sir  Jona 
I>a^erS(^»  ^leiress — than  I  am ) " 


t 


4. 


M»S.    VAVASOfrS  STOMY, 


\ 

I 


CHAPTRR    XIIL 


MRS.  VAVA0OR'S   story. 


m 


\\ 


V  was  out,  and  Gaston  Dantree  st<ood  for  a 
stunned,  looking  at  tb«  evil,  smiling  face  of  the  speakAX^ 
and  absolutely  unable;  to  reply.     Then — 
"  I  don't  believe  it,"  he  said  slowly. 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed  aloud : 

"  You  mean  you  don't  want  to  believe  it.  If  s  not  pleasant 
i>r  a  successful  adventurer.  Oh,  don't  be  offended  ;  if  s  only 
the  name  commonplace  people  give  other  people  cleverer  than 
themselves.  If  s  not  pleasant,  I  say,  when  the  golden  chalice 
of  fortune  is  at  our  lips  to  see  a  ruthless  hand  spill  that  wine  of 
life  at  our  feet.  It  isn't  pleasant  for  a  handsome,  dark-eyed 
A^donis,  with  the  face  of  a  god  and  the  purse  of  a — pauper,  to 
find  the  reputed  daughter  and  heiress  of  a  wealthy  baronet, 
whom  he  is  going  to  marry,  as  great  a  pauper  as  himself-  - 
greater,  indeed,  for  she  lacks  the  good  looks  that  may  yel 
make  your  fortune,  Mr.  Dantree.  It  isn't  pleasant,  but  it  is 
perfectly  true.  Sir  John  Dangerfield  has  imposed  upon  you — 
upon  his  rightful  heii  nere,  Mr.  Dangerfield,  upon  ^vciety-- 
passing  off  a  girl  of  whose  parentage  he  is  in  most  absolute 
ignorance,  as  his  daughter.  Don't  lly  into  a  passion,  Mr.  Dan- 
tree, as  I  see  you  are  half  inclined  to  do — at  least  not  with  me. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  and  I'm  not  to  blame.  If  you  don't  be- 
lieve me — but  I  see  you  do — come  with  me  to  Scarswood — 
Mr.  Dangerfield  and  J  are  bound  for  the  wedding — a^r^d  be  cor- 
ii^nced  from  Sir  John'-  own  lips.  My  shawl,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Dangerfield — Sir  Peter  that  is  to  be." 

He  took  the  rich  Parisian  wrap  and  folded  it  gallantly  around 
tier  slim  shoulders. 

Gaston  Dantree  still  stood  utterly  confounded — a  blank  feel- 
of  rage,  and  fury,  and  despair  choking  the  passionate  words 
\it  would  have  said     She  looked  at  him,  and  laughed  again  : 

"  MoH  DUu  /  he  is  like  an  incarnate  thunder-cloud — black 
md  ferocious  as  a  Levantine  pirate,  or  an  Alpine  brigand. 
Cheer  i»t>,  pum  ami,  we  won't  take  your  bride  from  you— only 
her  fortune ;  and  what  are  a  few  thousands  a  year,  more  or  less, 
to  such  a  devoted  lover  as  you  ?  And  she  would  go  with  you 
to  beggaugr.     It  makes  a  hardened  woman  of  the  world,  like 


\ 


MRS.    VAVASOJfS  STORY, 


145 


red- 
)rd8 


mj%t\^  al>8olutcly  young  again  to  see  such  gushing  and  beanti- 
fbl  devotion.  I  rather  thought  romance  had  gone  out  of  fash- 
ion in  this  year  of  grace,  and  that  it  was  only  at  Co  vent  Gar- 
den we  heard  of  '  two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought — two 
hearts  that  beat  as  one.'  But  I  have  fourd  out  my  mistake, 
and  think  better  of  the  world  since  I  have  known  you.  My 
bonnet,  Mr.  Dangerfield — thanks.  Now  then,  messieur&-»for 
ward  1  march  I     1  am  entirely  at  your  service." 

She  took  Peter  DangerfieUVs  arm,  looking  backward  over  her 
■houlder  at  the  black,  marble  figure  of  the  bridegroom,  like  the 
•tniling  vixen  she  was. 

" Come,  Gaston,  trnm  brave"  she  said  ;  " though  you  lose 
an  heiress,  you  need  not  lose  a  bride.  We  will  be  but  a  few 
minutes  late  after  all.     Come — away  ! " 

She  ran  lightly  down  the  stairs,  humming,  with  a  face  of  ma^ 
licious  delight,  "  Haste  to  the  Wedding." 

The  hour  for  which  she  had  hungered  and  thirsted  for  years 
and  years  had  come — the  hour  of  her  vengeance.  "  Revenge 
is  sweet — particularly  to  a  woman,"  singeth  my  Lord  Byron, 
and  he  had  hit  truth  as  well  as  poetry  when  he  said  it.  A  man 
sometimes  spares  his  enemy — a  woman  will  forgive  a  man 
seventy  times  seven,  but  one  woman  will  spare  another — never  f 

Gaston  Dan  tree  followed.  His  lips  were  set  in  an  expres- 
sion no  one  who  beheld  him  this  night  had  ever  seen  before  ; 
his  dark  eyes  were  lurid  with  rage,  disappointment,  and  fury, 
his  dusky  face  savage  and  set.  All  his  presentiments  were  ful- 
&lled — more  than  fulfilled.  At  the  worst  he  had  not  dreamed  (A 
anything  half  so  bad  as  this.  He  belitifed  what  he  had  heard — 
there  was  that  in  Mrs.  Vavasor's  face  and  voice,  with  all  their 
malice,  that  showed  she  spoke  the  truth.  For  the  second  time 
he  had  been  IcrJed — in  tiie  very  hour  of  his  triumph.  A  d& 
laoniacal  rage  hlled  him — against  this  woman,  against  the  ba^ 
onet,  against  Katherine,  against  himself. 

"  What  a  dolt — what  an  ass  I  have  been  !  "  he  muttered  in 
audibly,  grinding  his  teeth  ;  "  what  a  laughing-stock  I  shall  be  ! 
But,  by  Heaven  !  if  I  am  to  lose  a  fortune,  Katherine  Danger- 
keld  shall  lose  a  husband.  It's  one  thing  to  risk  Newgate  for 
an  heiress,  but  I'll  see  all  the  portionless,  adopted  daughteis 
tiliis  side  of  the  infernal  regions  at  the  bottom  of  the  bottomless 
pit,  before  I'll  risk  it  fov  one  of  them  I " 

And  then  Mr.  Dantree  folded  his  arms  in  sullen  silence,  aiid 
let  things  take  their  course.  He  knew  ihc  worst — he  had  pui 
bis  &te  to  te  test,  and  lost  it  all.  Nothing  remained  but  to  see 


146 


M/fS.    VAVASOgrS  STORY, 


\l      i1 


ihe  play  played  out,  to  pack  his  trunk,  and  at  once  seek  fres^ 
fields  and  pastures  new. 

The  night  was  black  as  Erebus  ;  the  cold,  cutting  sleet  stilf 
beat,  the  wind  still  blew.  The  street  lamps  flared  and  flickereci 
in  the  soughs  of  wind — the  shops  of  the  town  were  shut — lighti 
twinkled  pleasantly  behind  closed  blinds.  Mrs.  Vavasor  eat 
behind  him  muffled  in  her  wraps — a  demoniacal  desire  to  pitch 
her  headlong  out  of  the  trap  was  strong  upon  Mr.  Dantree. 

"  Little  devil  I "  he  thought,  looking  at  her  savagely  undei 
cover  of  the  darkness.  *'  She  knew  it  all  along  and  waited  foi 
this  melo-dramatic  climax.  It's  your  turn  now,  Mrs.  Vavasor ; 
when  the  wheel  revolves  and  mine  comes,  I'll  remember  this 
dark  night's  work  !  " 

Not  one  word  was  spoken  until  the  lights  of  Scarswood  came 
ill  sight  Gaston  Dantree' s  heart  was  full  of  passionate  bitter- 
ness, as  the  huge  gate  lamps  hove  in  view.  And  to-morrow  all 
this  might  have  been  his. 

"  Curse  the  luck  ! "  he  thought.  "  I  might  have  known  that 
blasted  old  harridan,  Fortune,  could  have  nothing  so  good  in 
•tore  for  a  step-son  like  me." 

They  whirled  up  under  the  frowning  stone  arch — up  undei 
the  black,  rocking  trees.  The  whole  long  front  of  the  old  man- 
sion was  brilliant  with  illumination.  The  great  portico  entrance 
stood  wide;  they  saw  Squire  Talbot  and  Captain  De  Vero 
come  out  with  anxious  faces ;  they  saw  Miss  Talbot  in  hei 
white  festal  robes  float  down  the  black,  oaken  stairway. 

"  All  waiting  for  the  bridegroom  !  "  Mrs.  Vavasor  said,  with 
her  habitual  short  laugh.  ••  Do  you  go  forward,  Mr.  Danger- 
field,  and  relieve  their  anxiety.     We  follow." 

Peter  Dangerheld  sprang  up  the  steps — never  in  all  his  life 
before  half  so  nimbly.  And  Edith  Talbot  flitted  forward  to 
him,  smiling,  but  with  an  anxious  quiver  in  her  voice. 

"  Oh,  come  ye  in  peace,  or  come  ye  in  war,  or  to  dance  %i 
oar  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ?  Mr.  Dangerfield,  whtri 
ii  Mr.  Dantree  ?  " 

**  Mr.  Dantree  is  here." 

He  spoke  very  quietly,  but  what  hidden  delight  gleamed  in 
his  small  pale  eyes !  If  they  only  knew  !  He  stepped  on  ent 
■ide,  and  Gaston  Dantree  and  Mrs.  Vavasor  stood  revealed. 

One  glance  at  the  bridegroom's  face,  and  blank  silence  fell 
What  had  happened?  Surely  nev  bridegroom,  from  Adaa 
dbwa,  wore  to  l^lack  and  gloomy  a  sr^wi  on  his  wedding  night  i 


i 


MRS.    VAVASOR' J  STOAY. 


147 


life 
to 


:c 


w 

one 

Id. 

feU 

dan 

bti 


1 


£dith  Talbot  recoiled  with  clasped  hands,  her  brother  and  th* 

captain  of  the  Plungrrs  stood  looking  at  him  aghast. 

"  By  Jove,  Dantrec,"  the  gallant  captain  managed  to  8tam> 
mer  at  last  "  You  look  awfully  cut  up,  you  know.  What  die 
deuce  is  the  row  ?  Don't  you  know  you're  behind  time,  man, 
and — I  say,  old  boy !  I  hope  nothing  serious  is  the  matter, 
you  know  ?" 

"Something  serious  is  the  matter,"  Peter  Dangerfield  mad« 
inswer  gravely,  for  the  gentleman  addressed  only  scowled  a  lit* 
tie  more  blackly  ;  '*  and  we  wish  to  see  Sir  John  immediately. 
Miss  Talbot,  we  are  going  to  the  library — will  you  tell  my  un- 
cle to  join  us  there  ?  And  if  you  can  keep  Katherine  out  ol 
the  way  for  the  next  half  hour,  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well." 

He  led  ^he  way  to  the  library,  his  two  companions  after  him 
— Mr.  Dai\';ree  stalking  along  like  a  specter. 

The  vast  and  spacious  library  was  brilliantly  lit  by  a  cluster 
of  waxlights  and  the  Hicker  of  a  dying  fire.  Shadows  crouched 
darkly  in  the  corners,  and  the  bl«ody  hand  shone  vividly  in  the 
escutcheon  over  the  mantel.  The  long  silken  curtains  were 
undrawn  ;  outside  by  a  faint  lighting  in  the  northern  sky,  the 
tossing,  wind-blown  trees,  the  slanting  sweep  of  the  rain  could 
be  seen.  Outside  there  was  the  uproar  of  the  storm — inside 
dead  stillness  reigned. 

Peter  Dangerfield  took  a  seat  deep  in  the  shadow  of  the  vast 
Maltese  window,  and  looked  around  the  lofty  and  noble  room 
as  he  had  never  looked  before. 

The  dark  walls  lined  with  books  from  ceiling  to  floor,  the 
busts,  the  brun/cii,  the  pictures,  and  the  heavy-carved  old  furni- 
ture.    One  day  all  this  would  be  his — one  day — one  day  I 

There  was  a  luxurious  fauteuil  drawn  up  before  the  fire  ;  int«i 
this  Mrs.  Vavasor  sank,  throwing  back  her  wet  wrap.  Mr. 
f>antree  stood  near,  his  elbow  on  the  mantel,  his  dark  angry 
fyes  &xed  on  the  fire,  his  mouth  set  under  his  black  mustache, 
3tem  and  grim.  There  was  neither  pity  nor  mercy  in  his  heart 
Sw  the  girl  who  loved  him.  He  had  not  been  spared — why 
tiumld  he  spare  ?  He  had  never  loved  her — he  hated  her  in 
dus  hour. 

So  he  waited — how  long  he  n<.ver  knew — fudl  of  ailent,  sullen 
fury,  all  the  more  dangerous  from  this  outward  quiet.  And  theo 
the  door  opened,  and  Sir  John  Dangerfield  came  in. 

If  he  had  not  known  before  he  entered,  he  knew,  the  mo* 
(uent  his  ey^s  rested  upon  them,  all  that  iiau  happened. 

HiB  secret  wai  told — thb  wonmn  had  played  him  false.  Petei 


148 


MRS.    VAVASOirS  sroMV. 


in:i 


\i' 


ii  ■:,;!!, 


Danji^erficld  knew  he  was  heir-at-law — Gaston  Dantiee  kaeii 
Kathcriae  was  not  his  daughter.     The  murder  was  out 

He  drew  a  long  breath — absolutely  a  breath  of  intense  relieC 
He  had  dreaded  this  hour  unutterably — he  had  stooped  to  decep 
tion — to  falsehood  and  bribery,  for  the  first  time  in  all  his  bravr 
life,  to  avert  it ;  and  now,  that  it  had  come,  he  thanked  Heaven 
He  conid  breathe  freely  and  face  his  fellow  men  again — hf 
ioiiUl  hold  his  head  erect  among  his  peers  once  more.  Hh 
(peat  love  had  made  him  a  coward — his  life  had  been  unspeak 
ably  miserable  under  the  burden  of  the  secret  he  dared  not  tell. 
Bat  another  had  told  it  in  spite  of  him — he  was  free  I  He 
Aung  back  his  head  proudly,  and  walked  into  their  midst  with 
his  film,  soldierly  step  and  stately  bearing,  and  stood  directly 
opposite  Gaston  Danttee.  The  Southerner  lifted  his  gloomy 
eyes,  and  the  gaze  of  the  two  men  met — steadv,  stern,  unflinch 
Uigly. 

"You  are  late,  Mr.  Dai;tree,"  the  baronet  sai«i,  coldly  and 
briefly.  "  You  pay  your  bride  a  poor  compliment  by  keeping 
her  waiting  on  her  bridal  eve." 

"  I  greatly  doubt,  Sir  John,  whether  there  will  be  either  bride 
or  bridal  to-night.  Certainly,  before  Miss  Dangerficld — if  there 
be  any  such  person — becomes  Mrs  Dantree,  you  will  clear  up 
a  little  statement  of  Mrs.  Vavasor's  She  tells  us  the  young 
lady  you  have  palmed  upon  us  as  your  daughter  and  heiress,  is 
-  -who  is  she,  Sir  John  Dangerfield  ?  " 

The  baronet  turned  his  eyes  for  the  nrsV  time  upon  the  little 
hgure  in  the  arm-chair. 

"  You  have  broken  faith  with  me,  Harriet  H  vman.  You 
took  my  money,  and  meant  to  betray  me." 

"  I  took  your  monev  and  meant  to  betray  you  i  Yer  1  1 
would  not  have  forfeited  my  revenge  for  three  times  the 
moDey/' 

"  I  might  have  known  it     Then  you  have  told  these  ♦wc. 

**  I  have  told  them  nothing  as  yet,  save  the  bare  fact  thai 
KAtherine  is  not  your  daughter,  Mr.  Dantree  did  ine  the  honor 
to  disbelieve  me — it  isn't  for  his  interest,  you  see,  as  it  is  foi 
your  nephew's,  to  believe  it ;  so  I  brought  them  here  to  relate 
Ae  story  in  your  presence.  They  can't  very  well  refuse  tc 
vedit  it  then.  And,  as  I  still  trust,  ?he  wedding  will  go  on," 
with  her  most  satirical  smile ;  "  ana  .^  I  don't  wish  to  keej' 
poor  little  Kathie  waiting  an^y  longer  than  is  absolutely  neces 
T  win   beijjin   at  once.     If  my  {iieinory  fails  me  in  an^ 


ifJfS.    VAVASOJ-^'S  XTOMY. 


I4§ 


s  knew 

e  reUeC 
•  (iecep 
is  bravr 
leaven 
lin — h« 
:.     Hn 
[ispeak 
[lot  tell. 
5 1     He 
1st  with 
directly 
gloomy 
nflinch 

dly  and 
keeping 

er  bride 
if  there 
lear  up 
young 
iress,  is 

little 

You 

ferl     1 
ie8  the 

fSC  *Wi"! 

:t  that 
honor 
is  foi 
relate 
ise  tt 
on," 
keec 
Ineces 
In   ^Tv\ 


mfnof  particular,  Sir  John,  or  if  any  of  my  statetnents  are  im 
correct,  you  will  be  good  enough  to  set  me  right     MeMieWH 

Dantrcc  and  Dangerfield,  listen  1 " 

She  folded  her  hands,  looked  into  the  ruddy  coalii,  and  b» 
g«n. 

*'  If  s  so  long  ago— so  long — so  long — it  makes  one's  half 
gray  only  to  look  back.  If  s  fifteen  years,  my  hearers,  since  dM 
express  train  from  Rouen  to  Paris  bore  among  its  passengen 
one  day  a  woman  and  a  child — a  little  girl  of  two.  They  were 
wery  poor — very  shabby,  and  traveled  third  class.  By  the  same 
train  traveled  lUcewise,  to  Paris,  an  English  officer,  his  lady, 
and  little  daughter,  also  aged  two  years  or  thereabouts.  The 
English  officer  was  under  marching  orders  for  India,  and  was 
going  to  sail  with  his  interesting  family  in  a  very  few  days. 

"But  man  proposes — French  railway  trains  sometimes  dis- 
pose, and  very  unpleasantly.  A  cattle  train  came  along — there 
was  a  mistake  somewhere,  and  worse, — there  was  a  collision. 
Crash !  crash  1 — away  we  went !  Something  hit  the  poor  little 
woman,  travehng  third  class,  un  the  head,  and  she  knew  no  more. 

"She  opened  her  eyes  next  in  a  hospital,  very  weak,  one 
great  pain  from  head  to  foot,  but  quite  conscious  and  likely  to 
five.     Her  first  question  was  for  the  child — tlead  (jr  alive ! 

"* Alive,'  the  gentle-faced  sister  of  cliarity  said,  'and  well, 
and  uninjured ;  and,  if  I  were  willing  to  dispose  of  it  in  a  fan 
way,  to  make  its  fortune  for  life.' 

"  *  How  ? '  I  asked. 

"  In  this  way  :  An  English  officer  and  his  lady,  traveling  in 
the  same  unfortunate  express  train,  had  had  their  child  killed 
— killed  instantly  by  that  terrible  collision.  The  officer  and 
his  lady  had  escaped  unhurt — they  were  wild  wiih  grief,  but  re 
Diembered  their  fellow  sufferers  through  it  all,  The  baby  was 
buried  in  Pere  la  Cliaise^  poor  angci !  a.d  monsieur  le  officer 
and  his  lady  came  daily  to  the  lospital  to  see  their  fcllow-suf 
ferers.  Here  they  had  seen  rne,  here  they  had  been  shown  my 
dlild — scantily  clad,  thin,  pale,  half-fetl — an  object  of  compas- 
non  to  gods  and  men.     And  its  little,  wan,  pathetic,  suffering, 

fatient  face  went  straight  to  that  desolate  spot  in  their  heart*, 
waa  very  poor — what  could  1  do  with  it  ?  They  would  ^dopt 
It,  bring  it  up  as  their  own,  give  it  their  name,  their  love,  and 
make  an  elegant  English  young  lady  C 5  i  little  nameless,  ragged 
Taif  and  stray. 

I  listened  to  all  this- — too  weak  to  say  niiich,  and  whcE 
dw  KugHgh  officer  and  H*  l.idv  ^'i'nitpd  ih^p  hrwpitalj  h:»&t«^ 


f< 


'!  I 


-    ! 


t5« 


at/ts.  yAV4sor.%  story 


them  repeat  the  sanie  aj-gu  n'tnts.  My  answer  wa*  ready:  I! 
they  wmild  ^vt*  me  two  hnndrct!  pomuls.  cash  doTrri—  I  wat 
V'**^'  moderate — they  u.jj.;ht  tpke  the  inhuU  for  gofxi,  to  Indu 
or  the  North  Tok',  and  do  with  her  as  they  would. 

"  My  ready  ac(iuirsccncc,  my  business  Hkc  way  of  pultiz^g 
things,  rather  took  them  al)a(k — rather  shocked  the  patcnul 
instinct  of  my  Knglishiinn.  He  looked  at  me  with  distrustfbl 
eyes,  and  asked  if  I  were  really  the  child's  mother.  It  would 
Live  been  more  pohiie,  I  dare  say,  to  have  said  yes,  but  I 
couldn't  say  it.  1  hated  that  child — 1  havl  hated  its  mother — 
and  some  of  that  hatred  looked  out  of  my  eyes  at  him,  and 
made  him  recoil. 

"*  She's  not  my  child,'  I  said  ;  '  I  tell  you  the  truth.  She'i 
not  mine,  but  she  belongs  to  me.  Never  mind  how — never 
mind  anything  about  her,  except  that  yoii  may  take  her  if  you 
like-— on  my  terms.  If  you  dont  like  them,  no  harm  done — 
MMne  one  else  will.  Two  hundred  p«nmds  down,  good  English 
gold,  and  take  her  away  out  of  my  sight  I'll  never  trouble 
you  any  more  about  her,  and  no  one  else  ever  will.  Now  do 
as  you  like.'     And  then  1  shut  my  lips  and  my  eyes,  and  waited. 

"  The  answer  was  what  I  expected  -  the  mother  had  taken  a 
<«incy  to  the  little  one,  and  my  Englishman  only  lived  to  gratify 
every  fancy  of  his  wife.  They  would  pay  the  two  hundre<1 
down,  and  would  take  the  child.  In  India  she  and  I  wer:* 
never  likely  to  meet  again.     What  was  my  name  I* 

"  •  Harriet  Harman.' 

*'  That  was  the  name  I  gsave.  Whether  or  no  it  were  mine, 
ia  nobo<jy's  business  here. 

"  *  And  the  child's  name — what  was  that  ? ' 

"  *  Harriet  Harnian,  too.  But  if  they  meant  to  adopt  her, 
they  had  better  re-christen  her — after  the  little  cherub  g&ne  up 
aUofi,  for  instance.' 

"We  closed  the  bargain.  1  got  the  two  hundred  pound? 
Mid  signed  the  receipt ;  I  have  it  yet.  1  laughed  as  I  sold  thi 
diild,  and  got  my  price.  It  was  the  first  installment  of  my 
vengeance — this  is  the  second.  What  would  her  motner  say, 
I  thought,  if  she  could  only  have  been  informed  of  thij  trans 
•ction. 

"They  took  the  child  away,     f  wai>:f"^  her  to  ^hake  hands 

wlAi  me,  but  she  wouldn't     If  you'^*  '^"^•Ueve  me,  at  two  years 

gAd  rfic  wouldn't.     And  T  hadn't  ir^^;?    •::  her  badly.     She  citing 

^  Aaea.  D«i(Os;er&ekl'&  akifts  anci  wo^ikin't  so  much  a»  look  ai 


f 


1 


Mas.  ^AVAsnfs  stoky. 


ifi 


y:  \\ 

Indu 

iltiz^g 

ustfcl 
would 
but  I 
iher — 
n,  and 

Shc'i 
-never 
if  you 
lone — 
English 
trouble 
low  do 
waited, 
taken  a 

gratify 
undre<i 

I  wer^ 


mine, 

)t  h«, 

i^ne  up 

>und? 

>1(3  th« 

I  of  my 

|cr  say, 

trans 

hands 
years 
citing 
at 


'  1  don't  mind  the  ihaka 
If  we  ever  meet  ugain, 


"'Oood-by,  then,  ma  petiie*  1  said 
Go         India  and  be  hapjjy. 
perhaps  you'U  think  better  of  it,  and  shake*  hands  again.* 

*'  My  English  officer  and  his  lady  came  again,  and  again,  and 
•gain  to  me,  to  induce  me  to  speak  and  tell  little  Katherine*! 
antecedents — (they  named  her  Katherine  at  once,  after  th« 
tittle  angel  crushed  to  jelly).  They  offered  me  another  hundred 
and  they  could  illy  spare  it,  but  all  the  gold  in  the  Bank  of  Eng^ 
land  would  not  have  made  ine  open  my  lips  until  my  own  time 
came.  1  wouldn't  tell,  and  I  haven't  told,  and  I  don't  mean  vo 
lell  until  I  choose. 

"  Katherine  Dangerfield's  father  and  friends  live,  but  who 
tbcy  are  no  power  on  earth  shall  ever  wring  from  me. 

"  They  took  her  to  India,  and  for  fifteen  years  1  lost  sight  o\ 
the  little  one.  But  it  was  not  out  of  sight  out  of  mind — I  ncvci 
quite  lost  her.  My  life  was  a  wandering  one — a  hard  one  often 
—but  OB  the  whole  not  an  uni)leasant  one.  I  made  money  and 
spent  money — I  pitched  my  tent  in  every  Continental  city,  and 
at  last,  one  day  in  Paris,  I  picked  up  an  English  paper,  and 
read  there  how  Sir  iwerard  Dangerfield,  of  Scarswood,  sixth 
baronet  of  the  name,  was  dead,  and  how  Sir  John  Dangerfield, 
late  of  her  Majesty's  Honorable  East  India  Company's  service, 
had  succeeded  to  the  title  and  estates.  Sir  John  and  his  only 
child.  Miss  Katherine  Dangerfield,  were  expected  in  England 
by  the  first  steamer. 

**  Here  was  news  !  Here  was  a  lift  in  the  world  for  la  petite, 
I  made  inquiries  about  this  Scarswood  park  ;  I  found  out  it 
had  a  rent-roll  of  eight  thousand  a  year,  strictly  entailed  to  the 
nearest  of  kin,  whether  male  or  female  ;  I  found  out  Sir  John 
had  a  nephew  in  the  place,  who,  lacking  heirs  on  Sir  John's  part^ 
was  heir-at-law ;  I  found  out  that  the  prevailing  belief  was  that 
the  young  lady  coming  from  India  was  really  Sir  John's  daugh 
ter  ;  I  found  out  that  the  death  of  the  child  in  the  French  rail 
way  accident,  fifteen  years  before,  was  a  dead  secret.  Mrs. 
Dangerfield  had  died  very  soon  after  her  arrival  in  India,  and 
ttr  John  alone  was  the  possessor  of  the  secret,  excepting  always 
lluC  he  had  not  told  missy  herselL 

"  I  read  the  English  papers  after  that — your  English  papers 
that  chronicle  everything  your  great  men  and  your  little  men  do. 
1  read  how  Sir  John  and  Miss  Dangerfield  had  arrived,  how  they 
had  ipone  down  to  Scarswood,  how  bells  had  rung,  and  bonfires 
Uajsed,  and  tenantry  cheered,  and  old  friends  trooped  to  wei* 
thenk    Thqr  luid  tiked  Sir  Bvorardi  but  Sir  Everard  WM 


tSJ 


MRS,    VAVASOR'S  STOXV^ 


i ^\  t 


\''\ 


gon«,  and  it  wm  ci  ooone,  *■  The  king  ii  dead— Bv«  i « 
Eng/ 

''Sir  John  had  taken  possession,  and  I  set  the  detective 
police  at  work  to  find  out  what  I  wanted  to  know.  I  focmd  it 
oat,  neither  missy  herself  nor  any  living  being  dreamed  she  w»f 
•thei  than  the  baronef  s  daughter. 

"  My  time  had  ccme— my  fortune  was  made ;  I  wrote  mf 
baronet  a  letter ;  I  told  him  I  was  co.-ning ;  I  bade  him  caU 
aie  Mrs.  Vavasor.  If  s  a  pretty  name,  an  aristocratic  name,  and 
I  have  retained  it  ever  since.  And  as  soon  as  ever  I  could 
raise  the  money,  for  it  was  one  of  my  impoverished  seasons,  I 
took  the  train  and  started. 

"  That  was  last  September.  Miss  Dangerfield  had  just  met 
Mr.  Dantree,  only  three  months  ago;  but  what  would  you? 
We  live  in  a  rapid  age,  a  br'^athless  a^e  of  steam  and  electric 
telegraphs,  and  love  no  longer  flies  with  old-fashioned  wings, 
but  speeds  along  by  lightning  express.  Miss  Dangerfield  was 
just  seventeen — a  feverish  and  impressionable  age — of  a  sus- 
ceptible and  romantic  turn  of  mind,  superinduced  by  a  surfeit 
of  poetry  and  novels,  and  she  meets  a  young  nipn,  well-dressed, 
well-mannered,  and  handsomer  than  anything  out  of  a  frame. 
He's  only  Gaston  Dantree,  a  good  singer,  and  a  penny-a-liner ; 
but  in  her  rose-colored  imagination  he  is  set  up  as  a  demi-god, 
and  she  falls  down  and  worshipt  him.  It's  the  way  of  her  sex, 
and  he  takes  all  the  worship  ae  his  right  and  due — the  way  oi 
kisiQx — and  keeps  a  bright  lookout  for  the  eight  thousand  a  year. 

"Well — I  come.  I  find  missy  grown  up  tall,  slim,  spLited, 
proud,  and  not  pretty.  I  find  her  like  her  mother,  her  moth^ 
whose  iT»emory  I  hate  to-night,  as  I  hated  herself  twenty  years 
ago->-I  hndher,  like  her  mother,  resolute,  passionate,  self-v/iiled, 
and  utterly  spoiled  She  has  no  thought  that  she  is  other  than 
dii^  y^s^j/n^  She  is  in  love,  and  determined  to  be  married. 
Best  in.  all,  the  man  she  loves  is  penniless,  not  the  least  in  the 
world  in  love  with  her,  only  bent  heart  and  soul  on  her  fortuae. 
Here  is  &  glorious  chance  for  me  ! 

"  Miss  Dangerfield,  from  the  uplifted  heights  whereon  petted 
taeireaies  dwell,  does  not  deign  to  tolerate  me.  Froiu  the  first 
ihe  abhors  me,  and  she  is  a  good  hater.  She  does  not  remem- 
ber me,  of  course  ;  she  doesn't  know  what  good  reason  she  liai 
to  be  my  enemy,  but  she  hates  me  with  an  honest,  open,  hearty 
hrATed  that  is  absolutely  refreshing.  She  snubs  me  ipon  every 
QWiukm — ehe  impk)res  her  fcither  to  oive  me  money  if  I  want 
il,  mii  timPk  -^ee  oot  of  doon.     If  I  didoi't  owe  her  molfadr  that 


MRS.     VAFASOF'S  ^TOlfV 


Mi 


;tted 

first 

Imem- 

le  liai 

learty 

jevery 

want 

IkMt 


nie  out.     Poor  old  soldier — if  i 
to  do  right — deception  aiul 


eid  grudige  I  flhouid  be  forced  to  owe  her  one  on  hei 
OMint. 

••  And  Sii  John  does  turn 
a  little  hard  on  him.     He  want's 

•ecrecy  are  foreign  t<>  his  nature-  but  how  can  he  ?  He  idol- 
izes this  girl ;  it  will  half  kill  ht-r  he  knows  to  hear  the  truth  ;  it 
will  part  her  from  her  lover,  break  her  heart,  and  make  her  hAt« 
him — unjustly,  no  doubt;  but  when  was  ever  a  woman  just  F 
And  he  clings  to  his  secret  with  desperate  tenacity,  and  pays  me 
ten  thousand  pounds  to  keep  it  inviolate,  and  bids  me  go  and 
return  no  more. 

"  I  take  the  money — whoever  refuses  money  ? — and  I  go, 
hit  to  return.  I  go  to  Paris,  ever  gracious,  ever-fascinating 
Paris;  I  enjoy  myself  and  I  wait.  And  in  England  meantime 
the  lovers  bill  and  coo,  and  the  sword  that  hangs  over  their 
head,  upheld  by  a  single  hair,  they  don't  see. 

"  One  week  before  the  wedding  day,  1  come  quietly  and  un- 
ostentatiously to  Castleford.  1  g«  to  Peter  Dangerfield  in  hia 
lodgings  ;  poor  Mr.  Peter,  who  doesn't  dream  he  is  wronged 
I  find  him  alone,  gloomy  and  solitary  this  Christmas  Eve,  vvnile 
over  at  Scarswood  waxlights  burn,  and  yulefires  blaze,  and  Mr, 
Dantree  kisses  his  bride-elect  under  ^he  mistletoe,  and  music 
and  memment  reign.  1  find  him  alone  and  ver\'  gloomy  ;  he  is 
thinking  how  this  ctuel  Katherine  jilted  him  and  called  him  a 
rickety  dwarf — how  a  dreary  life  of  legal  labor  lies  beft^re  hini, 
and  Scau"swood  will  go  to  Ciaston  Dancree  and  his  children. 
He  is  thinking  all  this  over  his  bachdor  glass  of  grog,  when  I 
appear  before  him  like  the  fairy  god-mother  I  am,  and  with  one 
wave  of  my  wai:d,  lo  !  all  thiii'^s  change.  The  haughty  heiress 
fella  firora  her  pedestal,  and  he  becomes  the  heir  !  Scarswood 
will  be  his  uid  his  alone  when  Sir  John  dies.  Pearls  and  dia 
ruonds  drop  from  my  lips,  ar^'l  he  promises  in  a  burst  .'^^f^" \er- 
onty  Ihat  diie  ten  thousand  pounds  reward  I  ask  shaii  \J  uy  b« 
mine. 

"And  the  wedding  night  arrives,  and  we  come  out  of  tht 
Kclusion  in  which  we  have  chosen  to  hide  into  the  light  of  day. 
He  goe«  for  the  bridegroom — he  brings  him  to  «ne  through  nigh*. 
■nd  storm,  and  darkness,  and  1  tell  him  the  truth.  I  tell  hiiki 
Katherine  Dangw-field  (so  rolled)  is  no  more  your  daughtet, 
■o  more  your  heiress  than  I  am  :  I  tell  hitn  he  has  been  grossly 
deceived  firom  tirst  to  1a3<1.  He  does  not  believe  mc — pt>oi 
vooaif  OMUi;  it  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  l)elieve.  Then  1 
MOg  \mm  bere  again  thxouigh  n^t,  and  gto«in«  an^  daiKoes^ 


tmmm 


i  •! 


»54 


DJV  OF  WRATH f   DAY  OF  GlfTSPi 


hrmving  all  things  for  the  noble  sake  of  truth,  and  J  repeat  li» 
fore  your  face  what  I  said  behind  your  back,  Sir  John,  and  dan 
jrou  to  deny  it.  I  repeat  that  the  girl  who  calls  you  father  ii 
fx>  more  your  daughter  or  heiress  than — " 

She  stopped  short  and  rose  up.  Among  the  shadows  at  the 
Wwer  end  of  the  room  a  darker  shadow  flickered. 

A  door  had  softly  opened,  a  curvain  had  hidden  the  unien 
Hstener  until  now. 

A  white  hand  pushed  back  the  drapery — a  white  face  emerged 
into  the  light. 

It  was  the  bride  herself!  n  her  sfaning  robe,  and  orange 
wreath,  aad  silverir  vr^l,  stanccng  theie  and  hearing  every  word. 


Ni 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


h:  v 


DAY  or  WRATH  1  DAY  OV   GRIKF  ! 


^■ 


HERE  was  dead  silence.  All  eyes  fell  upon  her  at 
once ;  all  rose  as  she  canie  gliding  forward.  Pas- 
sionate, impetuous,  impulsive,  what  would  she  say — 
what  would  she  do  ? 
In  that  dead  silence  she  comes  floating  forward,  a  shining 
bridal  vision — whiter  than  the  robe  she  wore — white,  cold,  calm. 
In  all  her  life  this  girl  had  never  restrained  one  singl :  emotion 
— now  in  the  supreme  hour  of  her  life  her  pale  face  was  as  emo 
tionless  as  though  carved  in  stone. 

She  came  straight  up  to  Sir  John  and  looked  him  full  in  the 
fM:e  with  her  large,  solen:     eyes. 

**  I  have  been  there  sinre  you  came  in  " — she  pointed  to  th€ 
curtained  recess,  and  hei  voice  had  neither  falter  nor  tremor. 
"  And  I  have  heard  every  word.     Is  it  all  true  ?  " 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  covered  his  face  with  his  handf 
with  a  sort  of  dry  sobbing  sound  hard  to  hear. 

"  Is  it  all  true  ?  "  she  repeated,  slowly,  painfully.  "  I  wan^ 
to  know  the  worst." 

"Then  Heaven  help  me  I    Yes,  Katherine,  it  is  all  tme-HJJ 

^  Asd  I  MA  not  your  daughter  ?  " 
rVoB  «M  notl    C»,  tof  dMJtt«,  ftM#p«  me.     If  I  M 


o.^y  Of  rt^^ >*?//'  DAV  np  rm/KPi 


i%% 


m  the 

to  th« 
•emor. 


M 


loved  ycm   less  1  uiight   h.iv»    «ia.d  c-^ragr    to   lell  you   t^ 
tnitk" 

Her  face  had  never  changed  from  its  stony  ciiin,  her  dark, 
dilated  eyes  never  left  his. 

"  And  this  is  the  secret  this  woman  has  held  over  yon  so  long  , 
the  secret  I  begged  you  to  tell,  and  you  would  not  — that  I  am 
aot  your  child  ?  " 

"  It  is  !     Once  more  forgive  me,  Kathe rine  !  " 

She  lifted  his  worn,  thin  hand  in  both  her  oVvTI  and  kissed  ix 

"  There  can  be  no  such  word  between  yon  and  aie,  papa. 
I  only  realize  now  how  much  I  owe  you — how  inhnile'y  good 
y©u  have  been  to  me.  You  have  been  better  to  me  tlian  any 
father  ever  was  to  a  child  before,  and  I  -how  have  1  repaid 
you?  But  I  wish  I  had  known — I  wish  1  had  known.  Mr. 
Dantree  " — sJie  turned  to  him  for  the  first  time  ;  for  the  first  time 
the  brave  voice  faltered — "  what  have  you  to  say  to  all  this  ?  " 

"That  I  have  been  grossly  deceived,'  Mr.  Dantiee  an 
swered,  lifting  his  gloomy  eyes  with  sullen  anger  ;  "  grossl> 
deceived  from  first  to  last." 

"But  not  by  me.  Do  me  at  least  that  poor  justice.  And 
now" — she  slowly  drew  nearer  to  him — "  how  is  it  to  be  ?  You 
swore  you  loved  me,  and  me  alone.  Now  is  the  time  to  prove 
your  truth." 

He  stood  sulkily  silent,  shifting  away,  however,  from  the  gaze 
of  those  solemn,  seai  ching  eyes. 

The  spectators  looked  on — Mrs.  Vavasor  with  a  face  of  tri- 
umphant, malicious  delight,  Peter  Dangerfield  full  of  vengeful 
exultation,  and  the  old  baronet  with  eyes  beginning  to  flash 
ominously.  The  silver  shining  figure  of  the  bride  stood  on  the 
hearth-rug,  the  dull  red  glow  of  the  cinders  lighting  her  luridly 
ap,  waiting  for  her  false  lover's  answer. 

It  did  not  come  ;  after  that  one  fleeting  glance,  he  stood  star- 
inflf  doggedly  into  the  fire. 

**  I  am  answered,"  Katherine  said  ;  "  and  all  the  warnings  I 
Teccived  were  right.  I  might  have  known  it ;  I  was  a  fool,  ant' 
I  am  only  reaping  a  fool's  reward.  It  was  the  heiress  of  Scars- 
wood  you  wanted  ;  the  eight  thousand  a  year  you  loved — not 
plain  Katherine  Dangerfield.  Take  your  ring,  Mr.  Dantiee, 
and  thank  Heaven — as  I  do — that  truth  has  come  to  light  aa 
hour  before  our  marriage  instead  of  an  hour  after.  Take  yoos 
ting,  and  40  !  " 

She  dsew  it  off  and  held  it  out  to  lim 

He  started  up  as  if  to  <^y. 


i$6 


DAV   Of   WRAllr    l)A\    Oif   GIflBPt 


v.\-  ■ 


i  'I 


y  • 


uiv 


:  1 


•*  Cturse  tiie  ring  ! "  he  exclaimed  frrocbusly  ;  *'  throw  it  intii 
tlK  ire  if  you  like.  /  don't  want  anything  to  remind  me  o( 
diiB  night's  work.  1  say  again,"  raising  his  voice.  "  I  ha^  c  bcci 
dttmefully  tricked  and  deceived.  I'm  a  great  deal  more  thaiik 
ftd  than  you  can  possibly  be  that  the  truth  has  come  out  ii 
time.  And  now,  as  1  suppose  everything  has  been  said  that  't 
is  necessary  to  sav,  I  may  take  my  departure  at  once,  and  kte 
all." 

He  seized  his  hat,  and  strode  toward  the  door.  But  the  tall, 
soldierly  figure  of  the  baronet  interposed. 

"  Stop,  sir ! "  he  thundered,  in  that  ringing  voice  that  had  often 
cheered  his  men  to  fiercest  battle  ;  "  all  has  not  been  said  that 
it  is  necessary  to  say.  Do  you  mean  that  this  revelation  shall 
prevent  the  marriage  ?  that,  in  a  word,  you  refuse  to  marry  my 
aidopted  daughter,  because  she  is  not  the  heiress  of  Scarswood  ?" 

Gaston  Dantree  met  the  old  soldier's  fiery,  flashing  glance 
with  sullen  defiance. 

"  Precisely,  Sir  John  ;  I  refuse  to  marry  your  adopted  daugh- 
ter either  to-night  or  at  any  future  time.  It  was  the  heiress  o^ 
Scarswood  I  wanted,  not  the  plain  young  lady  who,  if  she  will 
pardon  my  saying  it,  made  such  very  hard  running  upon  me 
that—" 

He  never  finished  the  sentence.  With  the  cry  and  spring  ol 
a  tiger  the  Indian  officer  was  upon  him — all  the  strengUi  of  his 
youth  back  in  his  rage. 

"  Coward  I  liar !  villain  I "  he  thundered,  grasping  him  by 
die  throat  "  Cur !  that  it  were  slander  to  call  man.  Lie 
there  I" 

He  grasped  him  by  the  throat,  lifting  the  short,  light  form  a« 
tiumgh  it  were  a  child  of  three  years,  flung  open  the  door — 
dragged  him  out  on  the  landing,  and  with  all  the  fury  and  might 
of  madness,  hurled  him  crushing  down  the  oaken  stairs. 

Mrs.  Vavasor's  shrieks  rang  through  the  house — Peter  Dan- 
cerfield  rushed  headlong  down  the  stairs.  Witli  a  dull  thud 
bad  to  hear,  Dantree  had  fallen  on  the  oaken  floi^,  and  lay  a 
bloody,  matilated  heap  now. 

The  uproar  had  roused  the  house ;  guests,  seivants,  brides- 
maids, all  came  flocking  wildly  out  into  ti)  j  hall.  Peter  Danger- 
field  had  lifted  the  head  of  the  prostrdle  man  to  his  knee,  and 
was  gazing  into  the  death-like  face,  alrajst  as  d@ath-like  himsell 

"Is  he  dead?** 

Captain  De  Vet  r  asked  the  qneition,  presaing  impetoocial^ 
^<n2^  the  throng.     No  otie  in  Suit  su^eme  hoot  aiiked  fphM 


i 


DJfV  OF  WRATH*  DAY  OP 


»  I. 


it  mu 
me  o( 
B  beet 
thaiik 
03t  ii 
that  a 
nd  fv 

lie  tall, 

d  often 
id  that 
n  shall 
jry  my 
ood?" 
glance 

daugh- 
iress  of 
jhe  will 
>on  me 

►ring  ol 
1  of  his 

lim  by 
Lie 

orm  am 
ioor — 
might 

Dan- 
thud 
lay  a 

)rides- 

|anger- 

and 

imseli 


iad  happened  ;  instinctively  ai.  warned  to  know  he  had  rpfvicef\ 
at  tlie  last  moment,  to  marry  Katherinc  Daisgerheld. 

The  dark  head  moved  a  little,  a  faint  moan  of  pain  caiiec 
from  the  livid  lips.  It  was  a  terrible  sight.  From  a  tremen- 
doos  gash  above  the  temple  the  bright  blood  gushed,  over  face, 
and  bosom,  and  hands. 

"Not  dea»d. '  Peter  Dangerfield  answered,  in  a  very  subdued 
roice.  •*  De  Vere,  Graves  and  Otis  are  here  somewhere,  are 
they  not  ?  Sen  d  them  along  like  a  good  fellow,  and  try  and 
jli/sperse  this  crowd,  in  Heaven's  name.  They  may  as  well  go 
— you  see  we're  not  going  to  have  a  wedding  to-night." 

Captain  De  Vere  turned  to  obey — then  paused.  There  wai 
A  shrill  woman's  cry  from  above — in  whose  voice  no  one  knew. 

"  Send  for  the  doctor  !    Quick  !  quick  !    Sir  John  is  in  a  fit ! " 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  heavy  fall — of  a  stifled  groan  in 
one  of  the  upper  rooms,  then  the  cries  of  frantic  women,  the 
rapid  hurrying  of  excited  feet.  Peter  Dangerfield  lifted  his 
eyes  from  the  ghastly,  gory  face  on  his  knee,  and  glanced 
darkly  up. 

"  The  plot  thickens,"  he  muttered.  "  Another  ht !  And 
the  doctors  warned  hiin  to  take  care — that  a  second  might 
prove  fatal.  I  am  Peter  Dangerfield  to-night,  and  verily  a  man 
of  little  account.  When  the  first  sun  of  the  New  Voar  rises,  1 
may  be  the  richest  baronet  in  Sussex  !  " 

Out  of  the  frightened  throng  of  wedding  guests  two  men 
made  their  way — Dr.  Graves,  of  Castleford,  and  his  clever  as- 
sistant, Mr.  Henry  Otis. 

**You  had  best  go  upstairs.  Dr.  Graves,  and  see  to  Sii 
John,"  Sir  John's  nephew  said,  with  grave  authority.  In  this 
crisis  of  his  life  he  seemed  to  rise  with  the  occasion  and  take 
lis  place  naturally  as  next  in  command.  '*  Otis,  look  at  this 
^oor  fellow,  while  I  go  and  help  De  Vere  to  send  these  people 
jo  the  right  about," 

Somewhere  in  Peter  Dangerfield' s  narrow  head,  talent,  un- 
laspected  heretofore,  must  have  been  stowed  away.  He  waa 
great  on  this  night.  He  got  the  excited,  alarmed,  and  demor- 
alized flock  of  well-dressed  wedding  guests  together  in  the  spa 
cious  drawing-rooms,  and  made  them  a  grave  little  speech. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  friends  and  neighbors,"  Mr.  Dan 
gerfield  began  in  his  piping  Httle  voice  :  "  dreadful  and  un 
expected  revelations  have  come  to  light  to-night.  Mr.  Dantrec 
in  the  basest  manner  has  refused  to  fulfill  his  contract — ha; 
■twahftfily  reftued  to  mairy — Miss  Dangerfield."     The  infi^f^' 


\f~' 


158 


DylV  or  WKATHi  1)4  Y    OF  GKTBFl 


'%  i 


wliflh  and  delight  with  which  the  speaker  suid  ihis  nmx  k*..ov»^ 
only  to  himsel£  *'  I  call  her  Miss  Dangerficld  still,  althougi 
she  has  really  no  right  to  that  name.  We  have  all  been  de 
ccived.  She  is  not  Sir  John's  daughter.  IVfio  she  is  he  knowf 
no  more  than  you  do.  It  was  her  fortune  this  dastardly  aui 
venturer  from  Louisiana  sought ;  when  lie  found  that  forfeit  K< 
refused  in  most  insolent  language  to  marry  lier.  Sij  ]o\)i 
threw  him  down  the  stairs.  If  he  is  killed,  it  only  servf  s  hiir 
sight  Sir  John  himself  is  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy.  Under  the?^ 
lad  circumstances  I  really  must  beg  of  you  to  leave  us.  Sca?^ 
wood,  from  a  house  of  wedding  joy,  has  become  a  house  cf 
mourning.  Leave  us,  my  friends — it  is  all  you  can  do  for  u^ 
now." 

Mr.  Dangerfield  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes  in  eloquent 
silence.  And,  awed  and  terrified,  the  bridal  company  dis 
persed  :  only  Squire  Talbot  and  his  sister,  and  the  captain  of 
fce  Plungers  Purple  lingered  in  the  stricken  house. 

Katherine  Dangerfield  not  Katherine  Dangerfield  ! — anobod> 
imposed  upon  them,  the  resident  gentry  of  the  county  !  Some- 
thing of  imagination  mingled  with  the  amaze  and  horror  of  the 
nighf  s  tragedy  as  these  good  people  drove  home  under  the 
*Bky,  midnight  sky.  And  if  Gaston  Dantree  died,  they  won- 
dered, would  the  law  really  hang  a  baronet  ? 

Peter  Dangerfield  lingered  in  the  dining-room  until  the  last 
earriage  rolled  away.  And  then  what  an  awful  silence  fell  upon 
the  great  house.  Flowers  bloomed  everywhere,  countless  wax- 
lights  flashed  upon  the  brilliant  scene — a  temporary  altar,  all 
roses  and  jessamine,  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room,  and  on 
the  painted  windows  the  Bloody  Hand  burned  into  the  glass, 
gleamed  redly  out  in  the  dazding  light.  And  upstairs  the  lord 
of  all  this  grandeur  and  luxury  lay  dying,  perhaps — and  he  was 
the  next  of  kin !  Peter  Dangerfield  strode  hastily  to  the  grand 
banqiketfng  room,  where  the  wedding  feast  was  s[)read.  Massive 
old  silver,  all  bearing  the  Dangerfield  crest  and  motto,  weighed 
ft  down,  crystal  glittered  in  rainbow  hues,  flowers  were  here,  an^ 
everywhere. 

"  And  to-morrow,"  he  thought,  with  secret  exultation,  "  all 
this  may  be  mine." 

He  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine  and  drank  it  As  he  replaced 
it  a  cold  hand  was  laid  upon  his — a  low  voice  spoke  in  his  ear. 

**  I'll  take  another,  if  you  please ;  my  nerves  are  horribly 
shakea.     I  taw  Gaston  Dantree' s  face."    She  shuddered  as  she 
it     ^  Good  Heavenc  I  wbat  a  night  this  has  been." 


BAY  OF  WKATttt  DAY  OP  GKIBPI 


Iff 


hougi 
en  dc- 
knowf 
ily  aal 
feithi 

Jolu 
PS  hi'Jf 
r  tbf?.'^ 

Sca--s 
)use  t't 
)  for  m 

loqueiit 
,ny  dis 
)tain  of 

nobod) 
Some- 
>r  of  the 
ider  the 
ey  won- 

the  last 
ell  upon 
ess  wax- 
iltar,  all 

and  on 
le  glass, 
the  lord 

he  was 
le  grand 
Massive 
weighed 
lere.  an^ 

on,  "  all 

replaced 

his  ear. 

Ihorribly 

as  she 


He  tsraed  and  saw  Mrs.  Vavasor. 

"  Yon  here  still ! "  he  said,  in  no  very  gracious  tone.  Sh« 
h«d  done  him  good  service,  but  the  service  was  done,  and  like 
all  of  his  kind,  he  was  ready  to  tling  her  aside.  **1 
dioiildn't  think  you  would  want  to  stay  under  this  roof  any 
longer  than  you  can  help — you  of  all  people.  If  these  tmh 
men  die  to-night,  I  wonder  if  their  ghosts  will  haunt  you 
Vou  talk  about  nerves,  forsooth  !  Here,  drink  this  and  go 
Icarswcod's  no  place  for  yo«." 

**  Grateful,  my  Peter,"  murmured  Mrs.  Vavasor,  as  she  took 
[he  glass ;  "  but  I  scarcely  expected  anything  better.  I  can 
dispense  even  with  your  gratitude  while  I  hold  your  promise  to 
pay  ten  thousand  down,  remember,  the  very  day  that  makes 
you  Sir  Pftter." 

"You  shall  have  it.  Go,  in  Heaven's  name  1  Don't  let 
that  girl — Katherine,  you  know — see  you,  or  I  believe  we'll 
have  a  second  tragedy  before  the  night  is  over." 

He  left  her  as  he  spoke.  On  the  threshold  he  turned  to  say 
a  last  word. 

"  Drive  the  trap  back  to  your  quarters  in  Castleford.  I'll  see 
you  to-morrow,  let  things  end  which  way  they  will.  I'm  going 
to  Sir  John  now.     Go  at  once — good-night !  " 

He  ascendcid  to  the  baronet's  room.  Dr.  Graves  was 
there,  Katherine  and  Miss  Talbot.  The  stricken  soldier  had 
been  laid  upon  his  bed,  undressed,  and  everything  done  for  him 
that  it  was  possible  to  do.  He  lay  rigid  and  stark,  his  heavy 
breathing  the  only  sign  of  life. 

"Well?"  Peter  Dangerfield  said  the  word  in  a  strained, 
tense  sort  of  voice,  and  looked  with  eager,  burning  eyes  at  the 
medical  man. 

"I  can  give  no  definite  ansrwer  as  yet,  Mr.  Dangerfield," 
Dr.  Graves  answered  coldly,  and  turning  his  back  upon  him. 

Peter  Dangerfield  drew  a  long  breath.  Death  was  written  of 
every  line  of  that  ghastly,  bloodless  face.  After  a  brief  five 
months'  reign,  Sir  John  lay  dying — dying  childless,  and  he  waa 
heir-at-law  I 

He  looked  furtively  at  Katherine.  She  was  standing  motion 
less  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  gazing  on  that  rigid  form.  She  had 
raiK>ved  nothing — not  a  flower — not  a  jewel — not  even  hei 
Klovea-— vail,  laces,  and  silk  still  floated  about  her.  Her  face 
kept  its  changeless  cahn— her  eyes  their  still,  frozen  look.  It 
was  horrible--4t  was  fearful  {  He  turned  away  with  a 
And  softly  quttfaed  the  room. 


n"    ^: 


i6o 


DAY  OF  WW  ATP'    HAY  OF    iOflRFt 


I  \m 


''Of  all  the  ways  in  wtucL  i  thought  she  would  take  it,  1 

npsr  thought  of  this,"  he  said  to  liimself.  "  Arc  all  woiiica 
Kke  her,  or  is  she  unlike  all  women  ?  I  never  understootl  hci  — 
to-night  I  understand  her  least  of  all." 

It  was  midnight  now.  He  prtused  a  moment  at  the  oridi 
window  to  look  out  at  the  night.  The  storm  had  expended  ill 
(iiry,  the  rain  and  sleet  had  ceased.  A  wild  norih  wind  waf 
blowing;  it  was  turning  bitterly  cold.  Up  above,  the  storm 
drifts  were  scudding  before  the  gale,  a  few  frosty  stars  glim- 
aiered,  and  a  wan  moon  lifted  its  pallid  face  out  of  the  distant 
9ca.  The  New  Year  gave  promise  of  dawning  brilliant  and 
bright. 

"  And  this  was  to  have  oeen  her  wedding  day,  and  the  bride* 
sroom  lies  dying  down-staiis.  I  would  not  spare  her  one  pang 
if  1  could,  but  I  Must  own  it's  hard  on  her." 

He  went  softly  down  the  long  stairway,  and  into  the  lower 
room  where  they  had  borne  Oast  on  Dantree.  Mr.  Otis  was 
with  him  still,  and  Talbot  and  1  )e  Vere. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  Mr   Dangerficld  demanded. 

He  looked  like  it.  They  had  washed  away  the  blood,  and 
bound  up  the  wound.  He  lay  with  his  eyes  closed,  and  breath- 
ing faintly ;  but,  dead  und  in  his  coffin,  Gaston  Dantree  would 
never  look  more  awfully  corpse-like  than  now. 

Mr.  Otis  lifted  his  quiet  eyes. 

•'  Not  dead,  Mr.  Dangerfield — not  oven  likely  to  die,  so  fai 
as  I  can  see.     What  is  to  be  done  with  hirn  ? — what — " 

He  stopped  and  recoiled,  for  into  their  midst  a  white  figure 
glided,  and  straight  up  to  the  wounded  man.  It  was  Kathe- 
rine.  Everywhere  she  went,  that  shining,  bride-like  figure' 
seemed  to  contradict  the  idea  of  death.  Her  eyes  had  a  fixedj 
sightless  sort  of  stare — like  the  eyes  of  a  sleep-walker  ;  her  fact 
was  tlie  hue  of  snow.  Noiseless,  soundless,  Hke  a  spirit  sht 
moved  in  her  white  robes,  until  s}:e  stood  besMe  the  man  sh 
Had  loved,  looking  down  ujDon  him  as  he  lay. 

The  man  she  had  loved  ?  He  ha  1  treated  her  brutally  ~ 
worse  than  man  ever  treated  woman  before,  but  there  was  nc 
anger  in  her  face  or  hcarc.  There  w?s  not  sprrow,  there  'vas 
not  even  pity — all  feeling  seemed  numb  and  dead  within  her. 
Stie  only  stood  and  looked  at  hiii*  with  a  fort  of  weary  wonder 
Three  hours  ago  he  had  been  so  full  of  life,  of  youth,  of  strengih 
of  beauty,  and  now  he  lay  more  help!  ..:s  than  a  new-bom  ciuhl 
What  a  narrow  step  divided  death  &om  Hfe. 

The    foor  mm  atood    inlent   &w»«trickei?.      She   fieith« 


\  n'l 


I>AY  OF  WRATH     DAV  OF   GRIEF t 


\6\ 


it,  1 

lici  — 

one/ 

d  war 
itorm 
gUrrv 
Ustant 
it  and 

bride- 
epang 

;  lowei 
tis  was 


>d,  and 
breath- 
would 


so  fas 

figure 
1  Kathe 
figure 
fixed. 
ler  fact 
irit  ftht 
jan  sV 

itally  - 
iras  lie 
;rt'  'vas 

kin  ner. 
,ronder 

[rtngib 
diild 


to  heed  nor  tee  thero      Mr.  Otiu  i>uiniiioned  coujag« 
ftt  Uat  to  approach  and  speak. 

*'Mi88  Dang<  rfield,"  he  said  with  grave  respccc,  "you  should 
bot  be  here.  T  iis  is  no  sight  for  /ou.  Let  Mr.  l3aDger£c^ 
l«ad  you  back  to  your  father." 

She  lifted  her  heavy  eyes,  and  seemed  to  sec  him  for  the  6nt 
tee. 

*'WUlhcdie?" 

'*  I  hope  not — I  trust  not  But  you  must  not  be  here  when 
he  lecoveni  consciousness." 

'*  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  him  ? "  she  asked,  in  die 
■ame  low  monotone.  "  He  cannot  stay  here.  Will  you  take 
him  away  ?  '* 

He  looked  at  her  doubtfully. 

"  Take  him — where  ?    To  the  hospital,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  No,  not  to  the  hospital.  1  should  rather  you  did  not  take 
him  there.     Can  he  be  removed  without  much  danger  ?" 

"  Well — yes  ;  if  he  is  removed  at  once." 

"  Then — Mr.  Otis,  will  you  do  me  a  favor  ?  " 

"  Anything  in  my  power,  Miss  Dangerfield." 

"Then  take  him  to  your  own  house.  It  is  a  great  favor  I 
*sk,  but  you  will  do  it  I  know.  The  expense  shall  be  mine. 
[  don't  want  him  to  die."  A  slight  shudder  passed  over  her  as 
«he  said  it ;  "  and  there  i&  nc<  one  else  I  can  ask.  Will  you  do 
thivs  for  me  ?  " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  looked  at  him.  A  greftt 
compassion  filled  his  heart  for  this  girl,  so  cruelly  bereaved 
Uvough  no  fault  of  her  own.     He  could  not  refuse. 

"  It  shall  be  done.  I  will  have  him  removed  immediately, 
and  if  he  dies  it  will  be  no  fault  of  mine." 

"  I  knew  I  might  trust  you.  If  it  is  possible,  I  will  go  there 
and  tee  him.  He  must  not  die,  Mr.  Otis — he  must  not"  A 
mdden  swift  gleam  came  into  her  dead  eyes.  "  He  must  re 
ftover,  and  he  must  leav  e  here.  Take  him  at  once,  and  thank 
you  very  much." 

Then  the  tall  white  figure  flitted  away  and  was  ^one,  and 
ttie  four  men  stood  confounded  and  looked  blankly  mto  each 
other's  startled  eyes. 

"  What  does  she  mean  ?  "  De  Vere  asked  "  What  does  At 
want  the  scoundrel  to  recover  for  ?  Egad  !  the  only  creditable 
thing  he  has  eve»  done  in  the  world  will  be  his  leaving  it" 

"It  is  for  her  father's  sake,  doubtless,"  su^i^c^ted  S(j»ir« 


I 


148 


UAT  OF  WRATH t  DAY  aP  GMiEFI 


1:   H   Jh 


'J  ii; 


;  ■:! 


(( 


**  Nothfaif  of  the  loit,"  interraptod  Peter  Dangerfield.  ^  Sm 
irants  Dantree  to  recover  for  her  ow*l  If  she  has  entirely  don« 
with  him  I'm  greatly  nistaken.  I  wouldn't  stand  in  Dantree't 
ihoei  when  he  recoveri  for  the  crown  of  England.  She  is  in  ao 
unnatural  itate  just  now — she'll  awake  after  a  little  and  be  all 
the  more  terrible  for  her  present  calm.  What  will  youi 
nother  Mty,  Otis,  when  yoa  turn  her  house  into  a  private 
tiospital  ?  "  . 

*'  Whatever  I  do  is  good  and  admirable  in  my  mother's  eyes. 
1  will  trouble  you,  Mr.  Dangerfield,  to  orocr  the  carriage,  and 
the  qaietest  horse  in  the  stable.  Every  moment  we  lose  now  \% 
of  vital  importance." 

Mr.  Dangerfield  obeyed.  The  carriage  was  brought  round, 
the  wounded  man,  carefully  covered  from  the  cold,  raw  night 
ai^  carried  out,  and  laid  among  the  cushions.  S<|uire  Talbot, 
with  little  love  for  the  stricken  man,  yet  accompanied  the  assist- 
ant into  Casdeford.  Gaston  Dantree  had  been  his  guest,  and 
though,  after  his  base  and  dastardly  conduct  to-night,  he  could 
never  again  cross  the  threshold  of  Morecambe,  he  still  felt 
bound  to  see  him  safely  to  his  destination. 

Captain  De  Vere  remained  behind  at  Scarswood,  at  the  solic- 
itation of  Mr.  Dangerfield.  He  could  not  return  to  his 
lodgings  while  tilings  were  in  this  uncertain  state,  neither  could 
he  remain  alone.  How  would  this  night  end?  Would  Sir 
John  recover  again,  or  would  the  New  Year  morning,  breaking 
already,  see  him  lord  of  this  noble  domain  ? 

And  upstairs,  in  the  sick  chamber,  the  dim  night  lamo  flick- 
ered, and  only  the  ticking  of  the  cictck  sounded  in  the  dead 
hush.  Sir  John  lay  motionless,  Dr.  Graves  sat  beside  him,  his 
wrist  between  his  fingers,  counting  the  beating  of  that  sinking^ 
pulse.  An  eminent  physician  had  been  telegraphed  for  to  Lon- 
don, but  it  was  more  thar  doubtful  if  he  would  find  the  baronet 
ilive  upon  his  arrival  And  if  Gaston  Dantree  died,  would  it 
QOt  be  as  well  so  ? 

Beside  him,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  looking  like  the  ghost  erf 
some  dead  bride  in  that  speciral  light,  Katherine  sat.  She 
■at  quite  motionless,  her  t/es  rarely  leaving  the  face  upon  thn 
pillow,  her  hands  clasped  on  her  lap,  her  face  like  marble. 
*»At  one  fell  swoop"  she  had  lost  all — all !  home,  friends,  fort- 
ane,  lover,  fathisr,  name,  and  yet  it  is  doubtful  if  H  these  first 
hours  she  suffered  mnrh.  She  could  not  realize  it  yet — the 
■nddcnneia  and  horror  of  ^hr  blow  had  stunned  her ;  hysterki 
lod  tean  and  woman's  utR^rmost  ai^ony  mi^hi  come  hereafter 


DAY  OF  WRATH  I    DAY  OF  GRIEF  1 


i6j 


ioiM 
rec'8 
in  an 
»eaU 
youf 
ivaU 

eye* 
,  an(^ 

lOWU 

Dund» 
night 
albot, 
issist- 
t,  and 
could 
U  felt 


;o 


;  solic- 
his 
could 
Id  Sir 
making 

flick- 
dead 
m,  his 
inking 
Lon- 
roncl 
»uld  it 

Lost  <A 
She 

m  the 

[arble. 
fort- 
first 

I— the 
srict 

leaftef 


— DOW  she  sat  still  and  calm.  Her  heart  lay  like  a  stone  ii 
her  botom,  a  dull  heavy  pain  throbbed  ceaselesvly  in  her  head« 
but  her  misery  was  tearless  and  dumb. 

Dr.  Graves,  watching  her  uneasily  and  furtively,  wondere<S 
f«rhat  manner  of  woman  this  girl  was.  So  unlike  all  others  hi 
had  ever  known,  sitting  here  without  one  complaint,  one  sob^ 
one  cry  of  pain,  with  her  bridegroom  lost  to  her  on  her  bridt^ 
night,  the  father  who  had  adored  her  dying  before  her  eyes. 

And  while  the  night  li^ht  flickered,  and  the  two  pale  watchen 
sat  mutely  there,  the  bright  wintry  sun  arose — the  happy  New 
Year  had  begun.  As  its  first  rays  stole  in  between  the  closed 
curtains,  the  sick  man's  eyes  opened,  and  he  rallied  a  little. 
His  glance  fell  upon  Katherin«,  a  swift  gleam  of  intelligence 
lit  his  eyes,  his  lips  moved,  and  a  few  incoherent  words  came 
forth.  In  an  instant  she  was  bending  above  him,  her  ear  to  his 
lips. 

**  Darling  papa !  yes,  what  is  it  ?  " 

He  strove  hard  to  speak,  but  again  only  that  muttered,  inco* 
fierent  sound.    But  the  girl's  quick  ear  had  caught  three  words : 

"Indian  cabinet — will."  His  thickening  voice  failed,  his 
dim  eyes  looked  with  piteous,  speechless  agony  up  in  hers. 

"  A  will  in  the  Indian  cabinet — is  that  it,  papa  ?  " 

He  nodded  eagerly — a  flash  of  light  crossing  his  death-like 
Gice. 

"And  you  want  me  to  get  it  for  you  ? " 

He  nodded  again.  "  Quick  I  "  he  said  huskily,  and  she  arose 
zskA  left  the  room. 

The  Indian  cabinet  was  in  the  library.  There  the  lights  still 
burned  brightly,  and  there  on  the  hearth-rug  her  lover  had 
stood — the  lover  for  whom  she  had  been  ready  to  give  up  the 
world  and  all  its  glory — and  who  mercilessly  cast  her  ofl^.  She 
looked  darkly  that  way  once.  "  He  will  live,"  she  raid  to  her- 
self umler  her  breath.  "  And  I  will  remember  it."  Then  sh«^ 
crossed  to  the  tall  cabinet,  opened  one  drawer  after  another, 
and  searched  among  the  papers  there  for  the  paper  she  wanted. 

She  found  it  without  much  trouble,  closed  and  relocked  the 
cabinet,  and  returned   to  the  sick  room.     Sir  John  still  lay, 
breathing  laboriously,  with  a  hungry,  eager  light  in  his  gleam 
h^  eyes. 

"  Shall  I  read  it,  papa — is  that  what  you  mean  ?" 

He  nodded  once  more.  She  opened  the  paper  —it  w« '  very 
short — and  read  clearly  and  distinctly  its  contents.  It  be 
queacKe<l  to  his  helovftd  dAo'.;^tf^\  i\'\\\vh\cr  Katheiine  the  s^grs 


i  in 


1\  <: 


t64 


DAV   OF  IVR^Tf/t    OAV   OF   GRIEF  I 


ai  tJirec  thousand  [lounds^-ir  e  ^^jitiun  of  his  late  wif«,  nutd 
viHRned.     SCie  understood  instantly  what  it  waa  he  wishad. 

"You  want  to  sign  this,  do  you  not  ? " 

Another  eager  nod,  another  husky  "  quick  !  " 

^e  laid  the  document  upon  the  blotting  book  btfoie  nin 
on  the  bed,  and  placed  the  pen  in  his  hand.     Dr.  (irave-s  ha^ilf 
gammoned  Captain   De  Vere,  and  the  two  men  sto'.xl  b>  ao 
witnesees  while  the  stricken  man  essayed  lo  sign. 

Essayed — and  in  vain  1     The  pen  dropped  uselesa  from  hk 
fingers.     Again  Katherine  lifted,  and  placed  it  in  his  hand- 
again  he  strove.     The  effort  was  futile — it  fell   from  his  fin 
gers,  and  with  a  low  moan  of  agony  his  nerveless  arm  dropped 
by  lus  side. 

"  It  is  of  no  use — all  vital  power  is  gone.  He  never  will 
sign  his  name  again,"  Dr.  Graves  said  ;  "he  is  exciting  himself 
dangerously  and  uselessly." 

The  dying  man  heard,  and  understood.  His  eyes  turned  on 
Katherine  with  a  speechless  anguish  terr'.ble  to  see. 

"Too  late !  too  late  ! "  they  heard  him  groan. 

"Oh,  my  God  1  too  late!' 

Katherine's  arras  encircled  him — she  pressed  her  cold  face 
close  to  his. 

"  Papa,  darling,"  she  said,  softly  and  sweetly,  "  I  *)on't  want 
you  to  grieve  for  me — to  think  of  me  even.  You  are  very, 
veiy  ill — very  ill,  papa,  and — had  we  not  better  siend  for  a 
clergyman  ?  " 

He  made  a  feeble  motion  of  assent.  She  looked  at  Cap- 
tain De  Vere. 

"  Vim  will  go  ?  "  she  said. 

He  weat  at  once.     Then  sii«  ijent  close  to  him  again,  whis- 
pering gently  and  ioothingly  into  his  ear.     But  it  is  doubtful  ij 
he  heard  her.     A  stupor — the  stupor  which  [  ecedes  death— 
W9LS  gathering  over  him  ;  his  dull  eyes  closed,  his  pale  lips  mut 
teredt  he  moaned  ceaselessly — the  great,  last  change  was  very 
near. 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  bhie  January  sky  now,  the  wholt 
world  jubilant  with  the  glad  sunlight  of  the  New  Year.  And 
in  the  town  of  Castleford  people  talked  with  bat  j  breath  of 
the  strange,  dread  tragedy  at  Scarswood,  and  f*f  nothing  else. 
In  a  Mttle  cottage  in  the  remotest  suburbs  of  tl*c  town,  Gaston 
Daniree  kur,  seneeless  still,  while  life  and  death  fought  theii 
fibmrp  baiUe  abore  his  pillow        \nd  in   that  stately   aod 


/  j 


A 

Ml 


IP  nm 
hafTOf 

b>  at' 

om  Ih 
\and— 
lis  fin 
ropped 

er  will 
himself 

Tied  on 


jld  face 

't  want 
very, 
for  a 


n,  whi&- 

Libtfui  a 

death— 
p6  mut 
ras  very 

wholt 
And 
reath  of 
ng  else. 
Gaston 

t  theii 
ly   wA 


I 


/  ! 


DAY  OP  WRATH i  DAY  OF  GRIEF t 


I6% 


•(tacioas  chamber  at  Scariwocxl  its  lord  lay  dying,  while  der^ 
man  and  physicians  stood  by,  useless  and  in  vain. 

She  never  left  him — she  neither  slept  nor  ate.  As  she  hac 
been  from  the  first — tearlens,  noiseless — so  she  was  to  the  last 
Th:  perfumed  laces — the  dead  white  silk  of  her  trailing  rol>« 
— still  swept  their  richness  over  tiie  carpet ;  on  arms  and  neck 
large  pearls  still  shone,  on  her  head  the  orange  wreath  auC 
vail  stdl  remained.  She  had  removed  nothing  but  her  gloves 
—what  did  it  matter  what  she  wore  now  ?  She  sat  beside  the 
dying  man,  while  the  slow  ghostly  hours  dragged  on — an  awful 
light  ^t  seemed  to  the  men  who  mutely  watched  her.  Her 
wedding  day  I  and  she  sat  here  bereaved  more  cruelly,  more 
bitterly,  than  ever  widow  in  the  world  before. 

Morning  came  and  passed.  The  short  January  afternoon 
wore  on.  The  sun  dropped  low,  the  blue  twilight  shadows 
were  gathering  once  more.  That  celebrated  physician  from 
London  had  arrived,  but  all  the  physicians  in  the  great  Babylon 
were  of  little  avail  now.  Lower  and  lower  the  red  wintry  sun 
dropped,  flushing  earth  and  sky  with  rose-light,  and,  as  its  last 
red  ray  faded  and  died  amid  the  trees  of  Scarswood  Park,  Sir 
John  Dangerfield  passed  from  Scarswood  and  all  earthly  pos- 
sessions forever.  Without  sign  or  struggle  the  shadow  that 
^oes  before  crept  up,  and  shut  out  the  light  of  life  in  one  quiet 
mstant  from  all  the  face. 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down  in  the  crimson  splendors  of  that 
New  Yetr  sunset,  Peter  Dangerfield  paced  under  the  leafless 
^es.  And  this  was  to  have  been  her  wedding  day  I  No  pang 
of  pity — ^no  touch  of  remorse  came  to  nim — ii  was  not  in  his 
nature  to  feel  either.  He  only  waited  in  .4  fever  of  impatience 
for  the  end. 

It  came.  As  he  stood  for  an  instant,  his  eyes  fixed  on  that 
red  radiance  in  the  west,  thinking  how  fair  and  stately  Scars 
wood  looked  beneath  its  light,  Dr  Graves  approached  him. 
One  look  at  his  face  was  enough  !  His  heart  gave  a  great 
leap.     At  last  I  at  last ! — his  hour  had  come. 

"  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,"  the  physician  gravely  said,  "  youi 
tilde  is  dead." 

7Tic  late  Sir  John  had  been  his  friend  ;  but  a  live  dog  ii 
b^t'er  than  a  dead  lion.  Sir  John  was  dead,  and  Sir  Petei 
rei3^i:;<ed.  It  could  do  no  harm  to  be  the  first  to  pay  court  to 
the  new  sovereign. 

"Sir  Peter!"     He  turned  faint  and  giidy  for  a  momcn 
with  great  joy,  and  leaned  e^^^e^Htes^l'-  at'a'nst  a  tr^^t      'Hw^wt 


i66 


*^DBAD   OR  AUV&.'' 


kc  ttttfted  up,  his  face  fushing  dark  red.  and  nu«'e  hastily  foi 
the  house.  Never  befr^re  had  the  old  baronial  hall  locked  haJ- 
lO  noble,  half  so  grand  ;  never  before  had  Ihe  fair  domain  spr eat' 
abound  hid/  seemed  half  so  stately  an  inncriiai;ce  as  now  whe:: 
heitood  tlicre  in  this  first  January  sunset,  master  of  Scarswy^d 


CHAPTER    XV 


II 


DEAD     OR     ALIVC. 


» 


tiE  fiinerau  was  over,  and  a  very  grand  and  stately 
ceiemonial  it  had  been.  There  had  been  a  profusion 
of  mutes,  of  black  velvet,  and  of  ostrich  feathers,  a 
long  procession  of  mourning  coaches,  a  longer  pro- 
cession of  the  carriages  of  the  county  families — a  whole  army, 
it  seemed,  of  the  Dangerfield  tenantry  and  the  irades-ptiopJe 
of  Castleford,  For  tlie  late  Sir  Jolin,  during  his  brief  reign, 
had  made  many  friends,  and  over  his  death  a  halo  of  delicious 
romance  'mng.  Miss  Dangerfield  was  not  Miss  Dangerfield — 
his  daughter  was  not  his  dauf '  ter,  and  over  in  that  little 
cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  a  young  man  lay — dying 
it  might  be — slain  by  the  hand  of  the  outraged  baronet  whom 
they  we»"e  burying  to-day. 

It  was  a  very  solemn  pageant.  'I'he  bells  of  'he  town  and 
of  the  hamlets  about  tolled  all  the  daylong?  Scarswood  Pa»^k 
had  been  alive  from  moming  until  night  with  people  in  carriages 
coming  to  leave  cards.  The  principal  shops  of  Castleford 
*(fere  shut,  tlie  principal  church  hung  in  black.  And  "  ashes  to 
^ies — dust  to  dust,"  had  been  spoken,  and  they  laid  Sir  John, 
jwth  the  dozens  of  other  dead  Dangerficids,  under  the  chancel, 
whcnfi  ^tufdy  Sir  Roland  Dangerfield,  knight,  had  knelt  (in 
stone)  for  a  hundred  years,  opposite  his  wife  Klizaoeth,  with  \ 
3tone  cushion  between  them. 

The  iimeral  was  over,  and  in  the  pale  yellow  glimmer  of  the 
January  sunset  the  mouniing  coaches  and  the  family  carriagci 
went  their  way,  and  the  dead  man's  a'iv4)ted  daughter  wag- 
driven  back  home.  Home  !  whj.l  an  utter  mockery  that  word 
anst  tiave  sounded  in  her  ears  as  she  lay  back  among  the  sable 
^^iahi«i«  in  har  trailing  craj>irs  iind  lv:utAvinr^,  and  knowing 


» 


-DEAD  OR  ALirS.' 


ifijr 


tily  foi 

spreaii' 
V  whet: 


stateljf 
refusion 
.thers,  a 
;er  pro- 
e  army, 
3-p«iopie 
if  reign, 
elicious 
rfield— 

t  little 
-dying 
whom 

Iwn  and 
>d  VdjV 
Triages 
Istleford 
ishes  to 
John, 
[hancel, 
lelt  (in 
with  a 

of  the 

Lriiagci 

ler  W2i- 

It  word 

sable 

lowing 


tfuU  ci  all  the  homeless,  houseless  wretches  adnft  jn  the  worid, 
there  was  not  one  more  homeless  than  she. 

The  pale  yellow  glow  of  the  sunset  was  merging  into  the 
gloomy  gray  of  evening  as  they  reached  Scarswood.  Het 
uithful  friend,  Edith  Tadbot,  who  had  been  with  her  from  tht 
ftrsl,  was  with  hei  still.  The  blinds  were  drawn  up,  shutten 
^nbarrevl,  Scarswood  looked  much  the  same  as  ever,  only  there 
yas  a  hatchment  over  the  great  dining-room  window,  and  \\\ 
the  house  the  servants,  clad  in  deepest  mourning,  moved  about 
like  ghosts,  with  bated  breath  and  hushed  voices,  as  though  the 
lord  of  the  manor  still  lay  in  state  In  these  silent  upper  rooms. 
It  all  struck  with  a  dreary  chili  en  the  heart  of  Miss  Talbot, 
the  gloom,  the  silence,  the  mourning  robes,  the  desolation. 
She  Juddered  a  little,  and  clung  closer  to  Katherine's  arm  as 
they  went  up  the  wide,  black  slippery  oaken  staircase,  down 
which  Gaston  Dantree  had  been  hurled.  But  there  was  that 
in  her  friend's  face  that  made  her  very  heart  stand  still  with 
awe  and  expectation. 

She  was  white  as  death.  At  all  times  she  had  been  pale,  but 
not  like  this — never  before  like  this  !  As  she  had  been  from 
the  first  hour  the  blow  fell,  so  she  was  still,  silent,  tearless,  rigid. 
All  those  days  and  nights  when  Sir  John  Dangerlield  had  lain 
stark  and  dead  before  her,  she  had  sat  immovable  in  the  big 
carved  oak  chair  at  his  head,  her  clasped  hands  lying  still,  her 
face  whiter  than  snow,  white  almost  as  the  dead,  her  eyes 
fixed  straight  before  her  in  a  fixed,  unseeing  stare.  Of  what  was 
she  thinkmg  as  she  sat  there — of  all  that  was  past,  of  all  that 
was  to  come  ?  No  one  knew.  People  who  had  thought  they 
had  known  her  best  looked  at  her  in  wonder  and  distrust,  and 
began  to  realize  they  had  never  known  her  at  all.  Friendi 
came,  and  friends  went — she  never  heeded  ;  they  spoke  to  her 
soothingly,  compassionately,  and  she  answered  in  briefest  mon 
osyllabbs,  and  closed  her  lips  more  resolutely  than  before. 
The  only  one  of  them  all  she  ever  addressed  directly  was  Mr 
Otis,  and  then  only  in  one  short  phrase,  "  How  is  he  "i  "  Thi 
answer  as  invariably  was  "  Much  the  same — no  worse,  no 
better."  Mr.  Otis,  with  his  keen  thin  face  and  steel-blue  eyes, 
wratched  this  singular  sort  of  girl  with  even  more  interest  than 
the  r^st  of  the  curious.  He  was  a  young  man  who  thought 
more  than  he  spoke,  and  who  studied  human  nstture.  Womei. 
at  best  are  incomprehensible  creatures,  scarcely  to  be  treats  ' 
as  ratiotml  beings  in  the  trying  hoiirs  of  life,  but  beyond  a! 
her  sex  this  gin  was  a  sphinx.      SI;  h«d  lost  lovar,  fa'.!.vi 


i66 


•DEAD   OR  ALIVE.^ 


fbrtuney  home,  and  name  all  in  one  houi  and  she  had  Derei 
ahed  one  tear,  never  uttered  or^e  complainit.  Other  women*! 
hearts  would  have  broken  for  half,  and  she,  a  child  of  seventeen, 
bore  an  like  a  Spartan.  Was  H  that  she  did  not  feel  at  all  o; 
— that  she  felt  so  much  ?  Would  this  frozen  calm  on  tla«t  he- 
life,  or  would  the  ice  break  all  at  once,  suddenly  and  terribh 
and  let  the  black  and  bitter  waters  below  rush  forth  ? 

"If  it  ever  does,  then  woe  to  those  who  have  ruined  her/ 
Mr.  Otis  thought  "  This  girl  is  no  coinnion  girl,  and  it  ot  ti 
l>c  judged  by  common  rules.  I  thought  so  from  the  first  tunt 
I  saw  her — happy  and  hopeful,  I  think  so  more  than  ever  now 
— in  her  desolation  and  despair.  She  loved  the  man  she  has  lost 
with  a  passion  and  abandon  which  (thank  Heaven  !)  few  girls  of 
jeventeen  ever  feel.  She  loved  the  father  who  is  dead,  the  name 
and  rank  she  bore,  the  noble  inheritance  that  was  to  be  hers. 
And  all  has  gone  from  her,  and  she  sits  here  like  this  !  Let 
Mrs.  Vavasor  take  care,  let  Peter  Dangerfield  be  warned,  and 
most  of  all,  let  Gaston  Dantree  die,  for  on  my  Hfe  I  believe 
a  day  of  terrible  reckoning  will  come." 

But  Gaston  Dantree  was  not  going  to  die  ;  that  matter  was 
settled  beyond  possibility  of  doubt  before  the  day  of  the  fu- 
neral. He  would  live.  He  told  her  so  now,  as  she  asked  the 
question ;  and  as  Henry  Otis  spoke  the  words,  his  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  her  with  a  keen,  powerful  look.  She  did  not  even  seem 
to  see  him — her  eyes  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  gray 
shadows  veiling  the  wintry  landscape,  a  slight,  indescribable 
smile  dawned  for  a  second  over  her  white  face. 

"He  will  live,"  she  repeated,  softly  ;  "  I  am  glad  of  that* 
She  looked  up  and  met  the  young  surgeon's  level,  searching 
gaze.  "  I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  said  again,  slowly,  *'  if  such  a 
lost  wretch  as  I  am  has  a  right  to  be  glad  at  all.  You  have 
been  very  kind,  Mr.  Otis."  She  gave  him  her  hand  with  some 
of  her  old  frank  grace.  "Thank  you  very  much.  I  will  repay 
jrou  some  day  if  I  can." 

He  took  the  sHm  fingers  in  his,  more  moved  than  she  knew. 
How  could  those  wan  little  fingers  work  ?  how  deathly  white 
the  young  face  I  An  infinite  compassion  moved  him,  and  in 
that  instant  there  dawned  within  hira  a  love  and  pity  that  never 
left  him.  He  longed  with  manhood's  strong  "ornpassion  to 
take  this  poor  little  womanly  martyi  m  his  sheltering  arms,  and 
hold  her  there  safe  from  sorrow,  and  suffering,  and  sin,  it  might 
he,  in  the  dark  davs  to  come. 

The  only  hours  m  whish  life  and  their  lakS  fire  had  come  to  the 


**typ.An  Off  ATTVp.^' 


i^ 


romen'i 
enteen, 
It  all  O! 
la«t  he- 
terribly 

;d  hei ; 

i  cot  t( 
St  tiint 
rer  noi« 
has  lost 

girls  ol 
le  name 
3e  hers. 
5 !  Lei 
led,  and 

believe 

tter  was 
r  the  fu 
;ked  the 
es  were 
en  seem 
e  gray 
ribable 

If  that  * 
[arching 
such  a 
lu  have 
:h  some 
[11  repaj 

knew 
|y  white 

and  in 
It  nevei 

don  to 

IS,  and 
It  might 

to  the 


targe,  weanr  eyes  of  the  girl,  had  been  the  hours  when  Petci 
Dangerfield  had  come  into  the  death-chamb^'.r.  Then  a  cuiioas 
expression  would  set  hei  iii)s  hard,  and  kindle  a  furtive,  cease- 
less eleam  in  her  eyes.  Sir  Peter  !  He  was  that  now  beyond 
the  uiadow  of  a  doubt — the  legal  forms  which  would  piove  hii 
right  presently  were  only  forms. 

Sir  Peter  wore  the  weeds  of  woe  well.  He  was  pale  and 
restless,  his  deep  black  made  him  look  quite  ghastly  ;  his  smalls 
paJe,  near-sighted  eyes  blinked  away  uneasily  from  that  statu- 
esque figure  sitting  in  the  great  arivi-chair.  Mr.  Otis  noticed 
tfiis,  too — what  did  not  those  sharp  eyes  of  his  see? 

"  I'm  a  poor  man,"  he  said  one  evening,  under  his  breath, 
as  he  watched  the  dark  glance  with  which  Katherine  followed 
the  new  baronet  out  of  the  room — "  I'm  a  poor  man,  and  I 
would  like  to  be  a  rich  one,  but  for  all  your  prospective  baron- 
etcy, all  your  eight  thousand  a  year,  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  I 
wouldn't  stand  in  your  shoes  to-night." 

And  now  it  was  all  over,  and  Katherine,  trailing  her  black 
robes  behind  her,  was  back  at  Scarswood.  "  For  the  last  time, 
Edith,"  she  said  softly  to  her  companion,  "  for  the  last  time," 

"  Katherine,"  her  friend  faltered,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  Oh, 
Kathie,  don't  look  so — don't  smile  like  that  for  pity's  sake. 
You  make  me  afraid  of  you." 

For  a  smile,  strange  and  ominous,  had  dawned  over  Kathe- 
rine's  face,  as  she  met  her  friend's  piteous  glance. 

"Afraid  of  me,"  she  repeated.  "Well — I  am  a  hideoufi 
object,  I  dare  say,  by  this  time,  and  I  don't  dare  to  look  in  the 
glass  for  fear  I  should  grow  afraid  of  myself.  Afraid  of  myself ! 
That  is  just  it — I  am  afraid  of  myself — horribly  afraid — afraid 
— afraid.  Edith,"  she  caught  her  friend's  arm  with  sudden 
strength,  "you  like  me  a  little  now — yes,  yes.  I  know  you 
do ;  and  in  the  years  that  are  to  come  I  know  you  will  hate 
me — hate  and  abhor  me  I  Edith,  I  loved  my  father — dearly, 
dearly — but  I  tell  you  I  am  glad  he  is  dead  and  buried 
tonight" 

'« Oh,  Katherine  1  Katherine  I " 

•*  1  am  only  seventeen,"  Katherine  Dangerfield  went  steadily 
on,  "and  I  am  strong,  and  healthy,  and  likely  to  "ve  for  fifty 
rears  to  come.  What  sort  of  a  woman  do  you  think  I  will  be 
half  or  a  quarter  of  a  century  from  now  ?  Think  of  me  as  I 
am  to-n^;ht,  F^Jith  Talbot,  when  the  time  conies  for  you  to 
shrink  at  the  sound  of  my  name — an  orphan,  who  had  no  father 
lo  loae,  a  widow  in  her  wedding  hour,  a  houseless,  friendlest 


'7* 


11'-' 


i'li,2; 


"DFA/*   ew   At./VR.** 


trained   to   think   herBclf  a   baroiwfs   lUiifhtff   wl 

The  passion  within  her  was  rising  now,  stiong,  hut  sorelj 
riling.  Her  hands  were  clenched,  her  eyes  bright  in  the  creep^ 
inf  dusk,  her  voice  deep,  suppressed,  and  intense.  Edith  Tal- 
bot clasped  her  two  hands  caressingly  round  her  arm,  aad 
looked  beseechingly  up  in  her  face. 

"Not  houseless — not  friendless,  Katherine,  darling — nevei 
that  while  my  brother  and  I  live.  Oh,  come  with  us — let 
Morecjunbe  be  your  home — let  me  be  your  sister.  I  love  you, 
dear — indeed  I  do,  and  never  half  so  fondly  as  now.  Com* 
with  us,  and  give  up  those  dark  and  dreadful  thoughts  that  1 
wnow  are  in  your  mind.     Come,  Kathie — darling — come  I " 

She  drew  her  friend's  face  down  and  kissed  it  again  and 
again.  And  Katherine  held  her  tight  for  one  moment,  and 
then  left  her  go. 

"It  is  like  you,  Edith,"  she  only  said,  "like  you  and  your 
brother.  But  then  it  was  always  a  weakness  of  your  nouse  to 
take  the  losing  side.  I  do  not  say  much,  but  believe  me  I'm 
very  grateful.  And  now,  my  little  pale  pet,  I  will  send  you 
home — you  are  worn  out  in  your  loyal  fidelity  to  your  fallen 
friend.  I  will  send  you  home,  and  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  you 
will  come  back  to  Scarswood.  * 

She  kissed  her,  and  put  her  from  her.  Edith  Talbot  looked 
at  her  distrustfiilly  in  the  fading  light. 

"  To-morrow  or  next  day !  But  when  I  come  back  to 
Scarswood  shall  I  find  Katherine  here  ?  " 

Katherine  was  standing  where  the  light  fell  strongest  She 
turned  abruptly  away  at  these  words. 

"  Where  else  should  yov  find  me  i*  You  don't  think  Peter 
Dan — nay  I  beg  his  pardon — Sir  Peter  will  turn  nie  on  the 
street  for  a  day  or  two  at  least.  Here  is  your  brother,  Edith 
— I  don't  want  to  meet  him,  and  I  would  rather  be  alone. 
You  must  go." 

The  words  sounded  iingracious,  but  Edith  understood  her— 
onderstood  the  swift  impetuous  kiss,  and  the  flight  from  the 
room.  She  wanted  to  be  alone — always  the  impulse  of  all 
wild  animals  in  the  first  throbs  of  pain.  And  though  Katherine 
ihowed  it  in  no  way,  nor  even  much  looked  it,  Edith  knew 
kow  the  wound  was  bleeding  inwardly,  and  that  it  was  just  such 
str:«ng  natutes  as  this  tha<^  suffer  most,  and  suffer  mutely. 

"  Going  to  stay  all  night  at  Scarswood  alone — deuced  strange 
girl  that,"  the  squire  gnimbled.     *  Never  shed  a  tear  since  it 


BR4»   BR   ALTVB 


i» 


w 


her — 
)in  the 

cf  all 
herinc 

knew 
such 

»«« 
it 


ftU  h;4>penedf  they  say — a  woman  thai  d<>«ii  i  CTy  Is  a  womar 
•f  Ae  wrong  sort.  She's  got  Otis  to  fete  h  ronnf!  that  coxcomb 
Dantree,  but  now  that  she's  got  him  fetched  round,  what  is  she 
goin^  to  do  with  hiin  ?  She's  got  to  walk  out  in  a  day  or  two 
and  leave  that  little  cad  of  an  attorney  lord  of  the  manor.  She 
never  lays  a  word  or  lifts  a  finger  to  help  hr li  tM.  And  I  uieii 
to  think  that  girl  had  pluck." 

"Wh^t  would  you  have  her  do?  What  can  she  do?"  hit 
aster  demanded,  impatiently.  "  What  can  tny  woman  d* 
when  she's  wronged,  but  break  her  heart  and  bear  it  ?" 

"Some  women  are  devils — ^just  that,"  the  young  squire 
responded,  gravely ;  "  and  I  believe  in  my  soul  Katherine 
Dangerfield  has  more  of  the  devil  in  her  than  even  the  general- 
ity of  women.  If  Messieurs  Dantree  and  Dangerfield  have 
heard  the  last  of  their  handiwork,  then  I'm  a  Dutchman.  H 
Kathenne  Dangerfield  can't  have  justice,  take  my  word  for  it, 
Miss  Talbot,  she'll  have  revenge." 

His  sister  said  nothing — she  shivered  beneath  her  sables 
and  looked  back  wistfully  towards  Scarswood.  She  loved  her 
friend  truly  and  greatly  as  girls  rarely  love  ;  and,  as  Katherine  had 
said,  it  was  ever  the  way  of  her  chivalrous  race  to  take  the  los- 
ing side — a  way  that  in  troubled  times  gone  by  had  cost  more 
than  one  Talbot  his  head.  A  vision  rose  before  her  of  Kath 
erine  alone  in  those  empty,  dark  rooms,  where  death  had  been 
so  lately,  brooding  with  that  pale,  somber  face,  o**  ;r  her  wrongs. 

"  With  her  nature,  it  is  enough  to  drive  her  to  madness  or 
suicide,"  Miss  Talbot  thought.  "  1  will  go  back  to-morrow 
and  fetch  her  with  me,  say  what  she  will.  To  be  left  to  her 
self  is  the  very  worst  thing  that  can  jwssibly  happen  to  he* 
row." 

Katherine  was  not  alone,  however.  There  had  followed 
their  carriage  to  Scarswood  another,  and  that  other  contained 
the  heir  and  the  late  baronet's  lawyer.  Mr.  Mansfield,  the 
Castleford  solicitor,  was  talking  very  earnestly  concerning  that 
msigned  and  invalid  w^ 

"  You  will  pardon  the  liberty  I  take,  Sir  Peter,  in  urging  yoo 
to  do  this  poor  young  lady  justice.  Probably  you  need  no 
urging — you  have  been  her  frieiKi — who  so  recently  thought 
yourself  her  cousin.  Your  late  excellent  uncle  was  my  frieni 
since  my  earliest  youth — I  know  and  you  know  how  lie  loved 
his  daughter — Katherine,  I  mean.  I  trust  and  believe,  Sii 
P<^er,  you  will  do  her  justice." 

llie  smile  on  the  face  of  the  new  baronet  might  ^ve  danqped 


I'    ' 


rra 


"  t^RAB     9Jf   Al.rVR  *' 


:vn 


fkt  M  9olidtor'!i  hope  OMud  h<>  have  seen  ft,  bait  tfic  Ami 
doling  night  hid  it  as  he  lai'  back  ki  the  cnskiona. 

"Ho^,  pray,  Mr.  Mansheld?" 

The  sneer  was  just  perceptible.  It  was  there,  however,  and 
tfie  lawyer  remarked  it 

••  By  giving  her  at  once  the  three  thousand  pounds  which  he 
fiihed  to  leave  her  in  that  unsigned  will,  if  will  it  can  really  be 
tailed,  diawn  up  infonnally  by  himself,  and  speaking  of  her 
joly.  I  suppose  the  knowledge  of  this  woman  Vavasor's  power, 
ind  his  dread  of  her  prevented  him  from  making  his  will  prop- 
erly, months  ago.  But  to  those  three  thousand  pounds,  the 
remains  of  his  late  wife's  portion,  you,  at  least,  Sir  Peter,  have 
no  shadow  of  moral  right.  Legally,  of  course,  everything  is 
yours,  but  law,  as  you  know,  is  not  always  justice." 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Mansfield,"  the  other  interrupted 
iioolly ;  "  law  and  justice  in  this  case  go  hand-in-hand.  My 
late  lamented  uncle  tried  his  best  to  defraud  me  of  my  rights — 
you  can't  deny  that." 

"  He  is  dead,  Sir  Peter,  and  you  know  the  old  Latin  prov- 
eifb  :  *  Speak  no  ill  of  the  dead.' " 

"  If  truth  be  ill,  it  must  be  spoken,  though  the  dead  had 
been  a  king  instead  of  a  baronet ;  and  T  claim  that  I  have  a 
legal  and  moral  right  to  everything — everything — you  under- 
stand, Mr.  Mansfield — this  three  thousand  pounds  and  all.  I 
think,  on  the  whole.  Miss  Katherine  Dangerfield  has  every 
reason  to  be  thankful  for  the  life  of  ease  and  luxury  she  has 
led — she,  who,  for  aught  we  know,  might  have  been  a  beggar 
bom.  There  is  no  need  to  get  angry,  Mr.  Mansfield — I  am 
speaking  truth." 

"  Then  I  am  to  dndersitand,  Sir  Peter,"  the  lawyer  said,  rais- 
ing his  voice,  "  that  yon  refuse  to  do  her  even  this  scant  justice — 
that  you  mean  to  send  her  forth  penniless  into  the  world  to 
make  her  own  way  as  she  best  can  ?  I  am  to  understand  this  ?  " 

"  My  good  fellow — no,"  the  young  baronet  said,  in  the  slow- 
mt,  laziest,  and  most  insolent  of  tones ;  "  nothing  of  the  sort — 
I  i^n't  turn  my  late  fair  relative  into  the  world.  She  shall 
Hvt  and  enliven  Scarswood  and  me  by  her  charming  presence 
ts  long  as  she  pleases.  But  you  will  kindly  allow  me  to  make 
my  own  terms  with  her,  and  be  generous  after  my  own  fashion. 
May  I  ask  if  it  is  to  visit  and  condole  with  Miss  Dangerfield 
that  you  are  on  your  way  to  Scarswood  now  ?  I  suppose  we 
must  eaK  hes  Miss  Danger&eld  for  convenience  sake  Wi  own 
Bftme,  a  dM  ever  had  a  legal  right  to  a  name,  being  onveieped 


:^si- 


**np.An  Oft  AtrV'fi*' 


^•7\ 


fuk 


prov- 


^  A  delightfol  cloud  of  mystery  and  ronuin^e       J  iroiid<r  how 
riM  finds  it  to  be  a  heroine  /  " 

"Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,"  the  old  lawyer  began  hotly  ,  but  tkc 
baronet  waved  his  hand  authoritatively. 

"  That  will  do,  Mr.  Mansfield.  I  have  been  in  your  ofllce,  I 
admit,  and  I  have  been  an  impoverished  attorney  while  you 
a  well-to-do  solicitor ;  perhaps  you  had  a  right  to  dictate  to 
then.  Our  relations  have  changed — 1  deny  your  righl  now. 
Be  kind  enough  to  keep  your  temper,  and  for  the  future,  yoof 
advice." 

And  then  Sir  Peter  folded  his  small  arms  across  his  small 
chest,  and  looked  with  the  malicious  delight  of  a  small  nature 
through  his  eye-glass  at  the  discomfited  solicitor. 

'^  I  owe  him  a  good  many  home-thrusts,"  the  baronet 
thought,  with  a  chuckle.  ''  I  think  I  have  paid  off  one 
installment  at  least ;  I  shall  pay  otf  all  I  owe  before  long." 

They  reached  Scarswood— -dark  and  gloomy  the  oW  house 
loomed  up  in  the  chill,  gray,  wintry  twilight.  A  crescent  moon 
s¥rung  over  the  trees,  and  the  stars,  bright  and  frosty,  were  out. 
No  lights  gleamed  anywhere  along  the  front  of  the  building ; 
except  the  soughing  of  the  night-wind,  no  sound  reached  their 
ears. 

"  If  one  believed  in  ghosts,  Scarswood  looks  a  fit  place  for 
A  ghostly  carnival  to-night,"  Mr.  Mansfield  thought ;  "  it  is  like 
a  haunted  house.  I  wonder  can  poor  old  Sir  John'v  shade  rest 
easy  in  the  tomb,  with  his  one  ewe  lamb  at  the  mercy  of  this 
contemptible  little  wol£" 

*'  I  am  going  to  the  library,  Mansfield,"  tlie  new  baronet 
said,  with  cool  familiarity.  "  If  you  or — Miss  Dangerfield  want 
me,  you  can  send  for  me  there.  Only  this  premise :  I  will  come 
to  no  terms  with  her  in  your  presence.  What  I  have  to  say  to 
her,  I  shall  say  to  her  alone." 

He  opened  the  library  door,  entered,  and  closed  it  with  an 
emphatic  bang  The  elder  man  looked  anxiously  after  him  on 
ihe  landing. 

"  What  does  the  little  reptile  mean  ?  I  don't  half  like  the  tone 
in  which  he  speaks  of  Katherine.  He  doesn't  mean  to — no, 
he  daren't — no  man  dare  insult  her  in  the  hour  of  her  downfall." 

He  sent  a  servant  to  announce  his  presence,  the  Ftench  girl 
Ninon ;  she  came  to  him  in  a  n^oment,  and  ushered  him  into 
the  room  where  Katherine  sat  alone. 

It  waft  her  old  familiar  sittirg-room  or  boudoir,  all  fitted  up 
irith  crimson  and  gilding,  for  «he  had  ever  loved  bright  colors 


^  ^ 


■'    !< 


tf 


"*  DAAD    Oft    ALfVE." 


TVe  iBrelJIght  leaping  in  the  g^ate  alone  lit  it  now,  &nd  before  tht 
fire,  lying  back  in  a  great  carved  antl  gilded  chair,  F^v^inf 
•at  The  bright  cushions  against  which  her  head  lay  tinarew  oat 
firith  itartling  relief  the  ghastly  pallor  of  her  face,  the  dead 
black  of  her  dress.  How  changed  she  was  —how  chA.«ged-~ 
how  changed  out  of  all  knowledge.  And  there  were  people  who 
kul  called  her  cold,  and  htaiiless,  and  unfeeling  because  shf 
had  sat  with  dry  eyes  and  still  face  beside  her  dead.  "  Un- 
feeling I "  and  worn  and  alterc  d  like  this. 

She  looked  rouw!  i^Pbd  h  '  i  o  t  her  h'md^  with  the  fkint  shadow 
of  her  form  n  'Jrigh ,    mik ,  to  h?r  friend. 

"My  dear,"  he  laid,  v*  ry  ^ently,  *'  I  do  not  intrude  upon  you 
too  Aoon,  do  I?  But  i  coul^'  ot  wait ;  I  came  with  Sir  Peter 
straight  from  the  funeral  here,  as  things  stand  now,  the  sooner 
your  affairs  are  settled  the  better." 

She  lifted  her  head  a  little  and  looked  at  him. 

**  Peter  Dangeriield  here — so  soon  !  ^ie  is  in  haste  to  take 
possession.  I>oes  he  intend  to  remain  all  night  ? — and  am  I  to 
leave  at  once  ?  " 

"  Vou  are  not  to  leave  until  you  see  fit,  for  a  thousand  Peter 
Dangerfields  \  I  don't  know  whether  he  intends  remaining 
over  night  or  not ;  certainly  not,  though,  I  should  say,  if  you 
object." 

"  1 1  What  right  have  I  to  object.  The  hoa^^  is  his,  and 
everything  in  it  He  is  perfectly  justified  in  taking  possession 
at  once,  and  in  turning  me  out  if  he  sees  fit." 

"  He  will  never  do  that,  my  child ;  and  I  think — I  hope — I 
am  sure  he  will  act  as  common  justice  requires,  and  give  you 
at  once  the  tkree  thousand  pounds  your  father  bequeathed  to 
you  in  that  unsigned  will." 

She  half  rose  from  her  chair ;  a  light  flashed  into  hei  face  ;  a 
rush  of  passionate  words  leaped  to  her  lips.  Mr.  Mansfield 
drew  back.  It  was  the  old  fiery  temper  breaking  through  the 
frozen  calm  of  those  latter  days'  despaii.  But  all  at  once  she 
checked  herfietf-~6he  who  never  before  had  checked  a  single 
•motion.  She  »mk  slowly  back  into  her  seat,  and  a  strange, 
fct  expression  hardened  her  mouth . 

**Yo«i  think  so,  Mr.  Mansfield — ^you  think  he  will  be 
i;enerou8  enough  for  that  ?  And  it  is  in  his  power  nci  to  give  it 
to  me  if  he  likes — those  three  thousand  pounds  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  it  is  in  his  power  ;  but  no  one  save  chc  veriest 
Monsksr  would  think  of  acting  a  part  so  thoroughly  mean  and 
base.     He    has    come  into   a   great    fcHtune    suddenly   and 


I 

I 


I 


•*np.A/i   O/f   Ai/^H,"^ 


tn 


yretht 
^inf 

sw  oat 
i  dead 
.ged— 
•!e  who 
ije  shf 
"Un- 

jhadcw 

on  you 
I  Peter 
i^ooner 


to  take 
im  I  to 

d  Peter 
Tiaining 
,  if  you 

lis,  and 
(session 

ope — I 
ve  you 
hed  to 

ace  ;  a 
msfield 
gh  the 
ice  she 
single 
trange, 

riU    be 
give  it 

veriest 
an  and 
ly  aiod 


jnexpectedly,  and  you  have  lost  one.  Surely  no  wretch  livci 
on  earth  so  utterly  despicable  as  to  wish  to  retain  alio  the 
portion  of  the  Ute  I.;dy  Dangerfield.  Sir  John's  last  effort  wap 
to  Viffn  tnat  will ;  it  ought  to  be  the  most  sacred  thing  on  emrlli 
to  Sir  John's  success*    ." 

She  listened  ven/  quietly,  the  shadow  of  a  Bcomful  smile  cm 
%^r  face. 

'Mr.  Mansfield,  I  am  afraid  there  is  something  wanting  li 
your  knowledge  of  human  nature,  in  your  opinion  of  Sir  Petef 
Dangerfield.  You  forget  how  long  this  new-made  baronet 
has  been  defrauded  of  his  rights  as  heir  presumptive.  You 
forget  that  some  months  ago  I  refused  to  marr>  him — tliat  i 
even  insulted  him — my  abominable  tempf  "^  (r.  Mansfield. 
You  forget  he  owes  me  a  long  debt,  and  thr*  it  <  in  his  power 
lo  repay  mc  now.  And  I  think  Sir  Peter  -  a  j^ :  tleman  whf; 
will  conscientiously  pay  every  debt  of  that  nn,*  'o  the  uttermost 
farthing." 

'My  dear  Miss  Da.  gerfield— " 

"  And  that  is  still  another  injury, "*  thv  g!ri  said.  **  I  have 
presumed  to  wear  an  honorable  and  ancio.it  name — I,  a  name- 
less waif  and  stray,  bom  in  an  almshouse  or  a  hovel,  very  likely. 
And  you  think  he  will  really  give  me  this  three  thousand 
pounds.  ?     Did  he  tell  you  so,  Mr.  Mansfield  ?  " 

"  No,  he  told  me  nothing."  The  old  lawyer  shifted  away  un 
easily,  as  he  spoke,  from  the  strange  expression  in  the  large, 
steadfast  eyes.  *'  He  said  he  would  see  you  alone,  and  make 
his  own  terms  with  you.  I  infer  from  that  he  intends  to  do 
something.  He  is  in  the  library — shall  I  go  and  send  him  here, 
or  would  you  rather  it  were  tomorrow  ?  " 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment — looking  into  the  fire — her 
mouth  set  in  that  hard,  straight  line.  He  watched  her  uneasily 
— he  could  not  understand  her  any  more  than  the  others.  Was 
|he  going  to  take  it  quietly  and  humbly  like  this  ? — she,  who 
two  weeks  ago  had  been  the  proudest  girl  in  Sussex.  Was  she 
going  to  accept  Peter  Dans;erfield's  dole  of  charity,  and  thank 
him  for  his  generosity  ?  cr  did  those  compressed  lips,  tlic  dry, 
bright  glitter  of  those  eyes,  speak  i;»f  coming  tempest  arul 
revolt  ?     He  was  out  of  his  depth  altogether. 

''Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  fidgeting,  "shall  I  send  faluk 
or—" 

She  looked  up,  aroused  from  her  trance. 

"  Send  nim  in,  by  all  means,"  she  said. 
geaeroos  Peter  Dangcr^eld  carv  be." 


"Let  0£ 


■m 


Ya 


'i: 

I 


B*  i' 


f 


I     ' 


i  ■ 


■'li-l 


If6 


*^  hHAh    O^    ALf^ti*' 


He  got  op,  walked  irresolutely  to  the  door,  bcdtatod  a 
Moment — then  came  suddenly  back. 

"  And,  Kathie,"  he  said  impetuously,  "  if  yon  shoold  fling  hii 
miierable  dole  back  in  his  face,  don't  fear  that  you  shall  erer 
munt  a  home.  I  have  no  daughters  of  m^  own ;  come  with  me 
(o  Castleford,  and  brighten  the  life  of  two  old  humdrum  pe^^ple. 
Come  and  be  my  daughter  for  the  rest  of  your  days." 

He  gave  her  no  time  to  answer — he  hurried  away  and  rappei^ 
•nartly  at  the  library  door.      Peter  Dangerfield's  small,  coloi 
test  face  looked  out. 

<•  What  ii  it  ?  "  he  asked.     "  Am  I  to  go  upstairs  ?  " 

"  You  are,"  responded  Mr.  Mansfield,  curtly ;  "  and  as  yon 
deal  with  that  poor  child  in  her  trouble,  may  the  good,  just 
God  deal  by  you.  I  sha?!  remain  here  and  take  her  home  with 
me  to-night  if  she  will  come." 

Peter  Daneerfield  smiled — an  evil  and  most  sinister  smile. 

"  I  think  It  extremely  likely  she  will  go,"  he  said.  "  The 
two-story  brick  dwelling  of  Mr.  Mansheld,  the  solicitor,  will  be 
rather  an  awkward  change  after  the  gayety  and  grandeur  of 
Scanwood,  but  then — beggars  mustn't  be  choosers." 

He  walked  straight  upstairs,  still  ^rith  a  smile  on  his  face — 
still  with  that  exulting  glow  at  his  heart. 

"You  have  had  your  day,  my  lady,"  he  said,  "and  you 
walked  over  our  heads  with  a  ring  and  a  clatter.  You  queened 
it  right  royally  over  us,  and  now  the  wheel  has  turned,  and  my 
tvn  has  come.  There  is  not  a  slight,  not  a  sneer,  not  an  in- 
tuit of  yours,  my  haughty,  uplifted  Miss  Dangerfield,  that  I  do 
not  remember — that  I  will  not  repay  to-night." 

He  opened  the  door  without  ceremony,  and  walked  in. 
The  room  was  brightly  lighted  now  ;  she  had  lit  the  clusters  of 
wax  tap<:rs  in  the  chandeliers,  and  stirred  the  hre  into  a  bright- 
er bUze.  With  its  crimson  and  gold  hangings  and  upholstery, 
ita  rich  ¥elvety  cari)ets,  its  little  gems  of  paintings,  its  carved 
and  inlaid  piano,  ks  mirrors,  its  light,  its  warmth,  and  perfume, 
it  lookeil,  as  he  opened  the  door,  a  rich  and  glowing  picture  oif 
color  and  beauty.  And  in  the  trailing  black  dress,  and  with 
ker  white,  cold  face,  Katherine,  the  fallen  queen  of  all  this 
grandeur,  stood  and  looked  at  him  as  he  came  in. 

She  had  \dk  her  seat,  and  was  leaning  lightly  againat  the 
mantel,  her  hands,  hanging  loosely,  clasped  before  her.  On 
loose  wasted  hands  rich  rings  flashed  in  the  firelight,  and  on 
Mm  J«ft  pAiO  glevnied  Gaston   Dantree'.  betrothal  oiiicle^  a 


ai 


^DMAD  OM  A  urn.." 


177 


hMT7  band  of  plain  gold     It  was  the  hrst  thiii|^  Peter 
idd  law.     He  laughed  slightly,  and  pointed  to  it. 

'*You  wear  it  still,  then,  my  fair  Cousin  Katherine.  And 
he  will  recover,  Otis  says.  Well— who  knows — yon  were 
madly  in  lore  with  him  when  you  were  a  baroret*!  laughter. 
He  may  prove  faithful,  and  think  better  of  jilting  you  when  hi 
reoorers,  and  we  may  have  a  wedding  after  all.  I^t  us  hop< 
to.  He  hu  used  you  badly — infernally,  1  may  say,  but  thcM 
your  angelic  sex  is  ready  tu  forgive  the  man  they  love  seventy 
times  seven." 

He  took  his  place  opposite  her,  and  they  looked  each  othei 
straight  in  the  eyes.  It  was  the  grave  defiance  of  two  duelists 
to  the  death. 

"  Was  that  what  you  came  here  to  say,  Sir  Peter  Danger 
6eld  ?  '• 

"  No,  Katherine — I  wonder  if  yoiu-  name  really  is  Katherine 
by  the  way ;  I  must  ask  Mrs.  Vavasor  ;  I  came  here  at  old 
Mansfield's  request  to  talk  business  and  money  matters.  How 
nice  it  is  for  you,  my  dear,  to  have  so  many  friends  in  the 
hour  of  your  downfall — the  Talbots,  the  Mansfields,  and  that 
heavy  dragoon,  De  Vere,  who  will  do  anything  under  Heaven 
for  you — well,  except,  perhaps,  marry  you.  And  you  look  like 
a  *  queen  uncrowned '  to-night,  my  tall,  stately  Miss  Danger- 
held — not  good-looking,  you  know,  my  dear — you  never  were 
that — but  majestic  and  dignified,  and  uplifted,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  Ah  I  how  are  the  mighty  fallen,  indeed  I  Only  a 
fortnight  ago  you  stood  here  ruling  it  like  a  very  princess,  on 
my  soul,  monarch  of  all  you  surveyed  ;  and  now — there  isn't  a 
beggar  in  the  streets  of  Castleford  poorer  than  you." 

She  stood  dead  silent,  looking  at  him.  How  his  eyc& 
gleamed — how  glibly  his  venomous  tongue  ran.  His  little 
form  actually  seemed  to  dilate  and  grow  tall  in  this  hour  of  hu 
triumph. 

"  And  that  other  night,"  he  went  on  ;  **  do  you  remember  it, 
Kathie  ?  Oh,  let  me  call  you  by  the  old  familiar  name  to  the 
last  I  That  other  night  when  I — a  poor,  pettifogging  attorney, 
as  I  think  I  have  heard  Mr.  Dantree  call  me — I  had  the  pre- 
stimpdon  in  the  conservatory  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  It 
was  presumptuous,  and  I  richly  deserved  the  rebuff  I  got  for  ray 
pains;  I  deserved  even  to  be  called  a  *  rickety  dwarf!'  N» 
Mie  knows  it  better  than  I.  You  tlie  heiress  of  Scarswood,  aitii 
I  not  worth  a  rap.  If  1  had  been  guovi  iu^jking,  even  like  iha; 
^f  rUc  Dantree,  with  a  face  and  voice  of  a  seraph  ;  but  ngl> 


iff 

r'f. 


'f 


«• 


D£AD  a/f  ALirM,** 


i  »■ 


and  a  dwarf,  and  only  an  attorney  wirhal,  you  lerved  me  pre 
cisely  right,  Katherine.  You  adored  beauty,  and  Dantree  wm  m 
your  feet;  you  worshiped  him,  and  he  worshiped  your — iuti 
•«ne ;  a  very  common  story.  What  a  pity  the  Fates  did  io' 
vake  us  both  handsome  iivstead  of  clever.  Wliat  chaDce  oai 
i^rauni  against  beauty — particularly  in  a  woman  ?  You  servecf 
me  right,  Katherine,  and  now,  in  return,  1  am  to  come  befoit 
roQ  to-night,  and  offer  you  three  thousand  pounds — mine  te 
gife  or  keep  as  I  please." 

He  paused,  his  whole  face  glowing  with  sardonic  light  Hen 
oevei  changed. 

**  Go  on,"  she  said,  in  a  perfectly  steady  voice. 

He  came  a  step  nearer.  What  did  that  strange  demoniacal 
Kght  in  his  eyes  mean  now  ?    She  saw  it  but  she  never  flinched. 

"  Katherine,"  he  said,  "  1  can  do  better  for  you  than  that. 
^<Vhat  i«  a  pitiful  three  thousand  pounds  to  the  late  heiress  oi 
■ght  thousand  per  annum  ?  I  can  do  better  for  you,  and  I 
^1.  Why  bhould  you  leave  Scarswood  at  all — why  not  remain 
here  as  mistress  still ! — with  m€  f  " 

"  Go  on,"  she  said  again  in  the  same  steady  tone. 

"  Need  I  speak  more  plainly  ?  "  He  drew  still  another  step 
iie«rer,  and  ail  the  devil  of  hatred  and  malignity  within  him 
shone  forth  in  the  gleam  of  his  eyes.  "Then  I  will — it  would 
be  a  pity  for  us  to  misunderstand  one  another  in  the  least 
].juit  September  I  asked  you,  the  heiress  of  Scarswood,  to  be 
my  wife.  You  refused — more,  you  grossly  insulted  me.  To- 
night I  return  good  for  evil — let  us  forgive  and  forget  Ai 
lord  and  master  of  Scarswood,  I  offer  you  ag£un  a  home  here — 
this  time  not  as  wife,  but  as  my  mistress  /  " 

The  atrocious  word  was  spoken.     His  ha.:e  and  revenge  had 

Even  him  a  diabolical  courage  to  say  what  he  never  would 
ire  dared  to  say  in  cold  blood.  But  at  the  last  word  he  dren 
back.  He  was  a  coward  to  the  core,  and  she  had  shown  her- 
•elf  before  now  to  have  the  fury  of  a  very  panther.  And  they 
were  alone — she  might  murder  him  before  he  could  reach  the 
door.     His  first  impulse  was  fliglit ;  and  she  saw  it 

"  Stop  I "  she  cried,  and  he  stood  as  still  as  though  he  had 
been  shot  "  You  coward  !  You  cur  1 "  No  worcu  can  tell 
Ae  concentrated  scorn  of  her  low,  level  voice.  "  You  have 
laid  it,  and  now  hear  me.  This  is  your  hour — mine  will  come, 
ind  here,  before  Heaven,  by  my  dead  father's  memory,  Isweai 
10  be  revenged.  Living,  I  shall  pursue  you  to  the  very  ends 
ol  the  Mrth— dead,  I  will  come  back  from  the  grave,  if  the 


^^AEa 


Hen 


T 

! 


\n 


AEFORh    MIDNIGHT 


179 


lead  can  !  Foi  every  word  you  have  si>oken  to-nicht,  yoa 
•kail  pay  dearly — dearly  !  I  have  only  one  thir  g  left  to  live 
for  now,  and  that  is  my  vengeance  on  you.  The  fortune  yom 
have  taaeu  1  will  wrest  from  you  yet — the  shaine,  the  miatry, 
the  disgrace  that  is  mine,  you  shall  feel  in  your  turn.  I  sweat 
U  1  Look  to  yourself,  Peter  Dangerfield  I  Lining,  I  will  hunl 
f*ju  down — Jeoiit  1  ^H  return  and  torment  you  I     Now  go." 

She  pointed  to  the  door.  It  was  the  most  theatrical  thing 
'<iiagiiable.  His  courage  rose  again.  She  did  not  mean  to 
spring  upon  him  and  strangle  him  then,  after  ail  He  laughed, 
a  low,  jeering  laugh,  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"  Katherine,"  he  said,  "do  goon  the  stage.  You'll  bean 
Irnament  to  the  profession,  and  will  turn  an  honest  jienny. 
That  speech,  that  attitude,  that  gesture,  that  tone  were  worthy 
he  immortal  Rachel  herself.  With  tlie  stage  lamps,  and  an 
appropriate  costume,  a  speech  half  so  melo-dramatic  would 
bring  down  tht  house.  And  if  you  die,  you'll  haunt  me  I 
Don't  die,  FCathie — you're  too  clever  a  woman  to  be  lost  to 
the  world.  And  ghosts,  my  dear,  went  out  of  fashion  with  the 
Castle  of  Otranto  and  the  Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  Think  over 
my  proposal,  my  dear,  and  good-night." 

He  looked  back  at  her  once  as  he  stood  there,  the  leaping 
firelight  full  on  her  white  face  and  black  robe,  and  as  he  saw 
her  then,  he  saw  her  sleeping  or  waking  all  the  rest  of  his  life, 
rhea  the  door  closed,  and  iCatherine  was  once  more  alone. 


je  had 

[would 

dren 

In  her- 

they 

the 

le  had 

teU 

nave 

:ome, 

tweai 

ends 

the 


I 


CHAITER  XVL 


BirORI      UIDMIOHT. 


jflR  hours  of  the  evening  wwre  on.     Sir  Peter  Dangev' 

ti<rld  had  shut  himself  up  in  the  lower  rooms,  on  the 
watch,  however,  for  any  sound  upstairs.  He  had  had 
hii  revenge — he  had  otfered  one  of  the  proudest  girls 

•n  England  the  most  deadly  insult  a  man  can  ctfer  a  woman 

It  was  the  hour  of  his  triumph,  but  in  the  midst  of  it  lall  he  felt 

itrangely  nervous  and  uneasy. 

"  I>ead  or  aUve  1   will  have  my  revenge"     The  osx^iaecus 

i»ord»  hannteo  bin.     In  the  months  of  other  glrl^  ilsmy  wiytikl 


m 


'.hi 

I 


r:r 


Hi 


-!':> 

!i''''1 


•  t   ( 


i8o 


BEFtiRR  MIDNIGHT. 


kaye  been  melo-dramatic  and  meaningless,  but  Katheriie  Dsa- 
goiftekl  ir&a  not  like  other  girls.  She  meant  them,  and  wooM 
movn;  hearen  and  earth  to  compass  her  ends. 

In  her  pretty,  wax-lit,  crimson-hung  room,  Katherine  stood. 
kniKfnd  motionless,  where  he  had  left  her.  Her  loosely  claspe<f 
haidu  still  hung  before  her,  her  darkly  brooding  eyes  never  lef 
the  fire.  Her  face  kept  its  white,  changeless  calm — her  Up 
were  set  in  that  hard  resolute,  bitter  line. 

The  sonorous  clock  over  the  stables  striking  eight  awoke  hr 
at  Isuit  from  her  trance.  She  started  up,  crossed  the  room,  likr 
one  roused  to  a  determined  puri)ose,  and  rang  the  bell.  Ninop 
carae. 

"  I'm  going  out,  Ninon — I  am  going  to  Castleford.  It  may 
be  close  upon  midnight  before  I  return,  and  the  house  will 
probably  be  shut  up.  Wait  for  me  at  the  door  in  the  southerp 
lurrct,  and  when  1  knock  let  me  in." 

*■'■  But,  mademoiselle,"  the  girl  cried  ;  "  to  Castleford  so  late, 
and  3n  foot,  and  alone  ! " 

"  I  don't  mind  the  lateness — no  one  will  molest  me.  Fo. 
the  walk,  I  can  do  it  in  an  hour  and  a  quarter.  Do  as  T  bid 
you,  Ninon,  and  say  nothing  to  any  one  of  my  absence." 

The  French  girl  knew  her  mistress  too  well  to  disobey,  but 
she  lingered  for  a  moment  at  the  door,  looking  back  wistfully 
She  loved  this  impetuous  young  mistress,  who  scolded  hei 
vehemently  one  instant  and  made  it  up  the  next  by  a  present 
of  her  best  silk  dress.  She  loved  her,  as  all  the  servants  in  the 
house  did,  and  never  so  well  as  now. 

"  If— if— oh  !  Mademoiselle  Katherine,  don't  be  angry,  bui 
if  you  wouid  only  let  me  go  with  you  1  The  way  is  so  long 
and  SG  lonely,  and  coming  home  it  will  be  so  late.  Mademo'- 
selle,  I  beseech  you  I  let  me  go  too  !  " 

*'  You  foolish  child — as  if  I  cared  for  the  lateness  or  the  Icr.'r 
lin(*«s.  It  is  only  happy  people  who  have  anything  to  fear.  A  i 
th»t  is  past  for  me.  Go,  Ninon,  and  do  precisely  as  I  tell  )-(*u 
if  you  are  still  so- silly  as  to  have  any  love  left  for  such  as  1/ 

The  girl  obeyed  reluctantly,  hovering  aloof  on  the  landing 
In  five  mir  ites  the  doer  opened  and  Mias  Dangei-field,  wrapped 
In  a   velvet  mantle,  and  wearing  her  little  black  velvet  \r\X, 
appeared. 

**  Yoii  here  still,  Ninon  !     Do  you  know  if  Mr. — Sir  Pete? 
Pftngerfield" — &he  set  her  lips  hard  as  she  ipcke  tbe  natne- 
^  10  anywhere  in  the  passages  below  ?  " 

••  If*  in  i«i  <^  library,  wademois^llf  " 


BFFOkR   UflDKTGHT. 


irooM 


,      AJ 

1/ 

tiding 
appec'- 
It  bnt 


T.OCfc  VKK 


"So  macli  the  better — we  shall  not  meet,  then. 
*jo»,  Ninon,  and  keep  the  key  until  my  return." 

She  glided  down  the  stairs  as  she  spoke,  dark,  and  nciseleM 
M  a  spirit.  She  met  no  one.  Sir  Peter  was  busy  over  papen, 
ttie  servants  were  in  their  own  quarters,  the  house  was  morf 
filect  than  a  tomb.  Softly  she  opened  and  closed  the  ponder 
•as  portico  door,  and  flitted  out  into  the  night. 

It  was  clear,  and  cold,  and  starlight — the  moon  had  not  yet 
viaen.  In  that  light  no  one  she  met  would  be  likelv  to  rccog 
fciie  her.  The  January  wind  blew  keen  and  cold,  and  she 
drew  her  fur-lined  velvet  closer  about  her,  and  sped  on  witii 
swift,  light,  elastic  steps. 

The  walk  was  unspeakably  lonely.  Until  the  lights  of  the 
town  gleamed  forth  through  the  starry  darkness  she  did  not 
meet  a  soul.  She  had  walked  so  rapidly  that  she  was  out  of 
breath  and  in  a  glow  of  wamitli.  She  slackened  her  pace  now, 
making  for  a  deserted  back  street,  and  pausing  finally  before  the 
quiet,  rcomy,  old-fashioned  hosterly  known  as  the  Silver  Rose. 

"  Does  a  lady  named  Mrs.  Vavasor  lodge  h«re  ?  " 

Tke  landlord  of  the  Silver  Rose  started  to  his  feet  aa  the  soft 
accents  fell  upon  his  ear.  The  next  moment  he  was  bowing 
)0w  before  the  slender,  black-robed  figure  and  the  two  grave, 
gray  eyes. 

The  heroine  of  the  d%',  the  talk  of  iie  town,  the  reputed 
daughter  of  the  late  Sir  John  Dangerfield,  stood  before  him. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Katherine.  Please  come  in  hout  of  the  cold. 
Mrs.  Vav«80r  does  lodge  here,  but  at  present  she  happear«  to 
be  hout." 

•  Will  she  soon  remm  ?  " 

"  Well,  Miss  Katherine,  I  really  couldn't  say,  but  1  think  it 
Bkely.  She  don't  hoften  be  hout  heven  as  late  as  this.  If  y«i' 
vould  please  to  come  in  and  wait,"  looking  at  her  doubtfully 
■nd  pausing. 

*'  If  you  will  show  me  up  to  her  room  I  will  wait,"  the  young 
\mdpf  answered.  *'  I  must  see  her  to-night.  If  you  knew  wher« 
the  was  you  might  send." 

The  landlord  shook  his  head. 

"  I  don't  know,  Miss  D  mgerfield.  She  goes  hout  very  scI- 
iloiM  snd  never  stays  long.     This  way,  if  you  please." 

He  held  a  candle  aloft,  and  led  the  way  upstairs,  and  flaag 
0pcn  a  door  on  the  ]anding  above. 

•*This  be  Mrs.  Vavasor's  sittin' room.  Take  a  scat  by  tiw 
&RI,  MiM  K^rbccbte,  an«l  i  t<i««sav  ^he'il  be  h«i«i^  neon." 


Ir^^ 


ii '? 


182 


BEFOHh    MIDNIGHT 


!mi 


,1/" 


,(':' 


;:» 


R.:.| 


:  ,  t 


f'    i  '■ 


1 

1) 


J    ; 


He  went  ont  and  clohcd  the  door.  Katheririt  itooil  in  tho 
center  of  the  rfK>fn  and  1<>f)ked  about  her  with  a  certain  annouot 
of  curio«ily  m  her  face,  'i'he  room  was  furnished  after  the 
stcreotyjhe  tasJiion  of  such  rooms.  A  kw  Frencli  novels  scat- 
tered about  were:  the  only  thitigs  to  betoken  the  individuality 
of  the  occupant.  Th<.'  door  of  tlie  chamber  oi)ening  from  this 
^fjartraent  stood  ajar,  and  looking  in  with  the  same  searching 
jare  something  fmnliai  caught  the  girl's  eye  at  once. 

The  bed  was  an  old-fashioned  four-poster,  hung  unwhole- 
gamely  with  curtains.  Reside  this  bed  was  a  little  table,  scat- 
tered over  with  dog-eared  novels,  Parisienne  fashion  books, 
Iwnbonni^reSj  hand-mirrors,  and  other  womanly  litter.  In  the 
center  stood  an  Indian  box  of  rare  beauty  and  workmanship. 
Kntherine  recognized  it  in  a  moment  It  was  one  of  hers,  a 
larewell  gift  from  a  military  friend  when  leaving  India.  She  re- 
membered how  more  than  once  Mrs.  Vavasr!  had  admired  v. 
jimong  the  othei  Indian  treasures  in  her  roo^'i,  how  all  at  onc^ 
it  kad  vanished  mysteriously,  and  now,  here  it  was — Katherine's 
short  upper  lip  curled  scornfully. 

•*  So,"  she  said,  "  you  are  a  thief,  as  well  as  an  intriguante, 
an  adventuress.  You  have  stolen  my  box.  Let  us  see  to  what 
use  you  have  out  poor  little  Knsign  Brandon's  gift." 

She  walked  delii>erately  into  Wv;,  sloeping-room  and  took  up 
the  casket.  It  closed  and  locked  with  a  secret  spring — slu 
touched  it  and  the  iid  flew  back.  It  contained  a  slim  packet 
of  letters  tied  with  ribbon^  ano  ^i:  old-fashioned  miniature 
^tainted  on  ivory,  in  a  case  of  velvet  onianiented  with  seed 
p«arls. 

In  zszxy  nature  there  are  depths  of  s^ji  that  come  to  light 
«nder  the  influence  of  adversity /VVbo  h-  VifA  virtuous,  untempt 
ed — who  is  not  honorable,  untrieBiiS^Tbe  dark  side  of  Kath 
erine'fl  nature  that  uiight  hatiT'"*rarn  dormant  and  unsuspected 
«ven  by  herself  forever  m  the  sunshine  of  prospei  ity,  was  assert- 
'ng  itself  now.  She  deliberately  read  the  address  on  the 
'etters.  The  pai>er  wat!  yelhnv  v/ith  time,  the  nik  faded,  but  the 
&old,  fimi,  masculine  h;4,,ul  was  perfectly  legible  stilL  "  Misi 
Harriet  Ldarhmr,  35  Ros^rmary  Place ^  A''ensifigUn"~-thaii 
ivas  the  address. 

She  tu.Tied  frov-i  the  Irrtters^  prcs.^cd  the  spring  of  the  picture 

K»9e,  and  looked  at  the  portrait  wi'hifi      f.ikc  the  letters,  tinie 

H«d  f^tded  it,  but  Oi»  l^oM,  rn/x'^CM^m-v.  h'>yish  face  t^miled  up  zf 

^er  with  a  brightness  that  even  a  score  of  jears  could  not  i»3r. 

"^  r^M:  the  eager,  hfwuiaiwne,  l>ep.rdlc!>F  hce  ni(  a  /oath  in  th* 


1 


in  tho 
9imo*.iot 

fter  the 
ils  scat- 
itlualily 
om  this 
arching 

nwhole- 
le,  scat- 
books. 
In  th<! 
lanship. 
hers,  a 
She  re- 
mired  ii 
at  onc« 
:herine'r. 

iguante, 
:  to  what 

took  iij- 
ng — she 
I  packet 
iniaturc 
th  seed 

to  light 
Intempt 
If  Ivath 
ispected 
assert- 
on    the 
but lh« 

"—that 

picture 
rs,  time 
\\  up  at 

in  th* 


BEFORE  MIDHIGMT,  ggj 

bfl  isMk  of  oianhood,  with  lipr:       *  "miled,  ind  e)r9  that  were 


"  A  brave,  gentlemanly  face,"  Katherine  thoaght  "  What 
ctfuld  a  man  like  this  ever  have  had  to  do  with  Ker  f  It  thit 
the  lover  she  spoke  of,  from  whom  my  mother  parted  her  ?  Arv 
diese  letters  from  him  ?  Was  her  name  Harriet  Lelacheur^ 
instead  of  Harman  ?  You  may  keep  my  Indian  box,  Mn. 
Vavaflor,  and  welcome,  and  /will  keep  its  content*," 

With  the  same  steady  deliberation  she  put  the  letters  aB# 
pictuie  in  her  pocket,  and  walked  back  into  the  other  roo'ii 
There  was  a  hard  light  in  her  eyes,  an  expression  on  her  frxc 
not  pleasant  to  see. 

"  On  the  road  I  am  walking  there  is  no  turning  back.  l*o 
accomplish  the  aim  of  my  life  I  must  do  to  others  as  I  have 
been  done  by.  Mrs.  Vavasor  and  Peter  Dangerfield  shall  find 
me  an  apt  pupil.     Ah — at  last !  he  e  she  is  I " 

She  turned  and  faced  the  door.  As  she  did  so,  it  was  thrown 
bnpetuously  open,  and  the  woman  she  hated  stood  before  her. 


It  was  Mrs.  Vavasor's  last  night  in  Castleford — her  last  nignt ; 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  forever. 

It  was  all  over.  The  romance,  and  revenge,  and  the  tnumph 
of  her  life  were  finished  and  done.  She  had  wrought  xjut  her 
vendetta  to  the  bitter  end  Her  price  had  been  paid  twice 
over.  With  twenty  thousand  pounds  as  her  fortune,  she  would 
return  to  Paris,  launch  out  into  a  life  of  splendor,  and  end  b> 
marrying  a  title. 

"  I  am  still  young — still  handsome — by  gaslight,''  she  mused, 
standing  before  the  mirror,  and  surveying  herself  critically.  **  I 
tm  one  of  those  fortunate  women  who  wear  well  and  light  up 
welL  The  French  are  right  in  saying  you  can't  tell  a  womar 
fcrom  a  gnat  by  lamplight.  V/ith  my  twenty  thousand  pounCa> 
lav  knowledge  of  this  wicked  world,,  my  host  of  fnends,  what  a 
life  lies  before  me  in  my  own  delightful  city  of  sunshine.  Yes, 
to-morrow  I  will  go ;  tliere  is  nothing  tolinger  in  this  stupid, 
plodding  country  town  for  longer — unless — imless — it  be  to  see 
W  m  her  down^" 

She  paced  softly  up  and  down  the  little  sitting-room.  The 
hour  was  early  twilight,  an  hour  Mrs  Vavasor  hated.  Hen 
wtxe  no  tender  twilight  memories  to  come  with  the  misty  stars. 
Gtnant  specters  of  ame,  and  s^ame,  and  poverty  haunted  ho^ 
ak^  tbe  dflbck  reosmi  that  lay  behinidl  thin  wmmm.    So^ihe  iw 


I 


!'.i 

:':. 


II 

'4 


Pi  .,  f : 

'j. 


m  t  i  ^1 


f(^? 


■1'!^ 


i«4 
Ike 


BRPORB  MTDNIGHT, 

drttwn,  and  the  lamp  lit,  and  the  fireUg^t  flfekcfedca 
of  braided  black  hair  and  the  trailing  robe  of  wine 


**  I  should  like  to  see  her  in  the  hour  of  her  downfall,"  she 
vepeated.  '^  I  should  like  to  «ee  her  mother's  daughter  in  th* 
porerty  and  pain  I  have  felt.  And  I  shall  one  day,  but  nof 
Lere.  Someho? — I  am  neither  superstitious  nor  a  coward,  but 
I  feel  half  afraid  to  meet  that  girl.  I  can  see  her  now,  as  she 
came  gliding  forward  in  that  ghostly  way  in  her  bridal  dress,  that 
Ujot  of  white  stone,  and  those  wild,  wide  eyes.  Ah  I  my 
lady  I  my  lady  !  In  the  hour  of  your  triumph  how  little  yoo 
dreamed  that  my  day  would  come  too." 

She  walked  softly  up  and  down,  a  subtle  and  most  evil  smile 
•n  her  dark  small  face.  The  striking  of  the  little  clock  on  the 
mantel  aroused  her ;  it  was  eight,  and  she  had  an  errand  in 
Castleford  before  all  the  shops  closed  for  the  night. 

She  put  on  her  bonnet,  wrapped  herself  in  a  large  fluffy 
shawl,  and  tripped  away.  She  was  barely  in  time  to  reach  the 
station  whither  she  was  bound  before  tlie  shopman  locked  his 
door.  She  bade  him  good-night  in  her  sweetest  tones,  and 
walked  homeward,  glancing  up  at  the  great  winter  stars  burning 
in  the  purple,  bright  sky. 

"  And  Sir  John  is  dead,  and  Sir  Peter  reigns !  Sic  iransU 
ghria  mundi  /  Poor  little  pitiful  wretch  !  it  was  like  wringing 
his  very  heart's  blood  to  part  with  his  beloved  guineas  to  me 
yesterday.  I  wonder  how  he  and  my  haughty  Katherine,  mj 
queen  uncrowned,  get  on  together  up  at  the  great  house,  and  I 
wonder  how  my  handsome  Gaston  does  this  cold  January  night. 
U§^  I "  She  shivered  under  her  furred  wraps.  She  was  a  chilly 
little  woman.  "  This  beastly  British  climate  I  And  to  think  1 
to  think  that  but  for  me  she  would  be  far  away  in  fair  foreign 
Iwids  by  this  time,  enjoying  her  honeymoon,  the  bride  of  a  man 
mt  adored  !  Yes — I  may  go  ;  no  revenge  was  ever  n%ore  com 
yiete  than  mine." 

She  was  sindng  softly  to  herself  as  she  ascended  the  stairs. 
Sverything  had  gone  so  well !  She  had  had  her  vengeance  and 
made  her  fortune  at  one  clever  throw,  and  after  to-night  a  long 
7k<fv  cf  i*aisian  pleasures  and  Parisian  life  floated  befwe  hei 
ia  sfc  rosy  mist  With  the  opera  tune  on  her  lips  she  opened 
V<»'  Cmx  flU'i  3too*i  itkCf  to  face  with — Katherine  Dangerfield. 

%9  i!to<cxi  rCiick  stili.  The  song  died  on  her  lips,  the  suddeB 
wiefB.  pdkr;  thai  ovenpread  her  face  showed  through  aX\  the 
po«> «  ^s?w«^*!«  ^/^  vote.    SSie  had  said  she  w»b  bo  ccSraid*  and 


/ 


M 


nP,FORI>    MinNlGHt. 


t8) 


ccredM 
of  wine 

all,"  she 
er  in  th« 
but  not 
rardfbut 
r,  as  she 
ressythat 
Aht  my 
little  yon 

ivil  smile 
:k  on  the 
irrand  in 

rge  fluffy 
reach  the 
x:ked  his 
mes,  and 
s  burning 

\c  iransU 
wringing 
:as  to  me 
srine,  mj 
,se,  and  I 
iry  night, 
is  a  chilly 
o  think  1 
ir  foreign 
of  a  man 
ore  com- 

le  stairs, 
ince  and 
It  a  long 
;fore  hei 
opened 

ield. 
suddeB 
all  the 


I 


lot,  but  in  this  hour  she  ittood  afraid  to  the  very  csere, 
lo  face  this  girl  she  had  wronged. 

Katherine  had  arisen  and  stood  beside  her,  md  Kathrriat 
iras  the  first  to  speak. 

"Come  in,  Mrs.  V^ivasor  the  room  is  your  own.  And  y«l 
need  not  look  such  a  picture  of  abject  terror.  I  haven't  cooM 
here  to  murder  you     to  night." 

Her  voice  was  pc^rfectly  clear,  perfectly  steady,  \n  angfy 
fullenness  came  to  the  elder  woman's  relief  She  came  in, 
dosed  the  door,  and  faced  defiantly  her  foe. 

"This  is  a  most  unexpected  pleasure,  Miss  Katherine  Dan- 
erfield.     To  what  do  I  owe  it  ?  " 

"And  as  unwelcome  as  unexpected,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  is  it  notl 
To  what  do  you  owe  it?  Well,  there  are  women  alive — oi 
girls,  if  you  will,  for  I  am  only  a  girl—  who  would  have  givctv 
you  back  death  for  less  ruin  than  you  have  wrought  me.  Oh, 
y^f  Mrs.  Vavasor,  I  mean  what  I  say  death  /  But  1  am  not 
of  chat  sort  ;  1  am  one  of  the  pacific  kind,  and  I  content  my- 
self by  coming  here  and  only  asking  a  few  questions.  I  per 
ccive  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  1  hear  you  leave  Castleford 
IT  mo-iow." 

*  I  do."  The  widow's  thin  lips  were  shut  in  a  hard,  unpleas- 
int  line  now,  and  her  voice  was  sullen.  '*  Permit  nae  to  add 
that  I  am  in  somewhat  of  a  hurry,  and  that  th  hour  is  late.  J 
must  pack  before  I  retire.  I  quit  (Jastleford  »-morrow  by  the 
very  first  train." 

"Ah!     Naturally,  Castleford  can't  be  a  p 
you  to  remain.     You  are  not  popular  here 
Vavasor.     1  will  not  detain  you  long.     Of  '   » 
own  option  f^i0ilhff  pr)  answer  my  questioj 

"Of  course.      '¥Ud.i  'v/   I  do  for  you,  Mi 

She  threw  herself  int//   a  rhair,   stretch< 
%KX>ted  f.*et  to  the  fire,  and  UmAc^^S  vross  w 
hfce  at  her  enemy.     And  yet  fee/  het^f  mi 
•rless  face,   with  its  tense,  set  e/i^ft^mtf 
frightened  her  more  than  any  words,  M^y    liieats  could  Ikw^/i 
done. 

Katherine  turned  her  grave  eyes  from  th^  fire,  ci««ped  her 
hands  together  on  the  little  table  between  them,  and  leaned 
dightly  forward  as  she  spoke. 

"  Misi  Dangerficld  is  not  my  name.  Vo«  iic  the  only  a»f 
wb*  knows.     Will  you  tell  me  what  ^  yi  ?  " 

*<l<9-^4Mnded^.*' 


;ant  [)lace  for 
[)rescnt,  Mrs. 
-  it  is  at  your 
t  not/' 

Dangerfield?" 

'ijf  her  daintily 

the  sai/^  defiiJrtt 

r  her.     ^fh0  t/4 

rs  curioti«  <t:^f% 


s 


I 


i«d 


XRFOffP   KffDmc^T 


|]l 


!f 


S  1/* 


\ 


m  m 


H 


liiii:!  i  \ 


!', 


I,  I 


I 


"  Th«*  18  one  of  the  questions  you  will  not  answer.  Hert  ll 
ftnother  :  Is  my  father  alive  ?  " 

"  He  is." 

**  My  mother  is  dead — really  dead  ?  " 

"As  dead  as  Queen  Anne,  Miss  Dangcifield.  I  suppose  w« 
way  as  well  continue  to  call  you  so  to  the  last,  for  convenience 
isake.  Your  mother  is  dead -and,  Katherine,  you've  beet* 
brought  up  a  Clu^istian,  and  all  that,  and  you  ought  to  know 
IX)  you  suppose  the  dead  see  what  goes  on  in  this  reelings 
rockmg  little  globe  of  ours  ?  Because  if  they  do,  I  sincerely 
hope  your  late  lamented  maternal  parent  is  looking  down  upon 
you  and  me  at  this  moment." 

"  You  are  a  good  hater,  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Now  I  should  like 
lo  know  what  ray  mother  ever  did  to  you  to  inspire  such  deep, 
and  bitter,  and  lasting  hate.  You  hated  her  alive,  you  hate  her 
iead,  and  you  visit  tha  ♦.  hate,  as  bitter  as  ever,  years  and  years 
ifter,  upon  her  rhlid.  I  don't  blame  you,  mind  ;  I  don't  say  I 
would  not  lio  the  same  myself,  under  certain  circumstances  ^ 
Cfily  I  am  very  curious  to  know  all  about  it." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  looked  at  her  doubtfully. 

"  Yov.  hate,  ..lie  said,  "  and  you  talk  to  me  like  this — to  me 
of  all  people  alive.  You  hate — you  who  sit  there  so  quietly, 
and  speak  like  this  after  all  the  trouble  and  shame  that  would 
drive  most  girls  mad.  I  don't  think  you  know  what  hate 
means." 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  came  over  Katherine' s  tace.  She 
looked  silently  across  at  the  speaker  for  an  in^iant,  that  slow^ 
curious  smile  her  only  answer. 

"  We  won't  discuss  that  "  she  said.  "  Perhaps  I  came  of  a 
weak  and  pusillanimous  race,  and  there  is  so  much  of  the  8{)an 
iel  in  my  naiure  that  1  am  ready  to  kiss  the  hand  that  hit; 
hardest.  Never  mind  me.  Time  is  passing,  Mrs.  Vavasor , 
io  one  generous  thing  to  your  enemy  at  the  last — tell  her  some 
shing  more  of  her  own  story.  Yon  liavc  r;ad  full  and  complebd 
cevenge — you  can  afford  to  he  magnanimous  now." 

The  perfect  coolness  of  this  unexpected  adaress  won  its  end. 
Mrs.  Vavasor,  plucky  herself,  ad?nired  pluck  m  others,  and  ail 
women,  good  or  bad,  act  on  impulse. 

"  You  are  a  cool  hand,"  she  said,  with  something  of  idmira 
don  in  her  tone,  "and  I  may  tell  you  this — you  are  trf  no  weak 
or  cowardly  race  ;  the  blood  that  flows  in  your  veixia  has  bem 
iihtef,  bad  blood  in  its  day.     And  you  wouki  like  lo  km^v 
of  fow  mother  ?    Yoor  DBoCber  1  '* 


E 


# 


ftMJ^O^/f    MfDNrHMT 


\%1 


Herall 


ppose  w« 
ivenience 
I've  bceii- 
to  know 
s  reelings 
sincerely 
3wn  upon 

lould  like 
ich  deep, 
I  hate  hcf 
ind  years 
on't  say  I 
istances  ^ 


IS — to  me 
o  quietly, 
lat  would 
^hat  hate 

ice.  She 
that  slowj 

laine  of  a 
the  8i)an 
that  hits 
Vavasor . 
ler  some 
vomplebfc 

Q  its  end. 
s,  and  all 


idsnira 
BO  wedk 
hi*  been 


euiDed  thonghtfully  upon  the  fire,  her  jniiiJ  wandered  back  t« 
the  past  "  1  can  see  her  nou-  st.-indir.j.',  bchsc"  me  ia  plainly 
M  I  used  to  sec  her  twenty  yeins  ag(\  tall  and  sitatcly.  Yo* 
are  like  her,  Kathcrine — the  same  graceful  walk,  the  face  at 
once  proud-looking  and  plain  lookini^ — the  dress  of  black  and 
arange,  or  purple  or  crimson — she  had  a  passion  for  bright 
~olors,  and  the  dark  red  flowers  she  used  to  wear  ii,  htr  hail. 
You  are  Hke  her,  and  a  little  like  your  father,  too  ;  his  way  dt 
uniling  and  speaking  at  times.  You  are  most  like  him  now  as 
you  sit  there,  so  quiet,  'M  uee[),  so  resolute.  Katherinc,  you  will 
make  your  way  in  the  world,  I  think — women  like  you  always  do." 

"Will  you  go  on,  Mrs.  Vavasor?  Once  more,  nevei  mind 
me." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed    -all  her  airy,  easy  self  again, 

**  And  you  really  are  anxious  like  this  to  know  why  1  hated—- 
why  I  still  hate  your  dead  mother  ?  \Vell — I  am  in  the  humor 
to  gratify  you  to-night — I  have  lucked  the  past  so  closely  up 
for  such  a  length  of  time,  that  it  is  soruething  of  a  relief  and  a 
pleasure  to  unlock  it  to-ni[:ht.  But  to  think  I  should  tell  it  to 
you — to  you  !  These  things  come  p-lni;.*:  so  queerly — life  is  all 
so  queer — such  a  di/zy,  whirling,  nur;  .40-round,  and  we  all 
jumping-jacks,  who  just  dance  as  our  strings  are  pulled.  And 
they  call  us  responsible  beings,  and  they  tell  us  we  can  shape 
Dur  ovvTi  lives !  Why  look  you.  I  might  have  been  a  good 
woman — a  rich  v/oman — a  ri>odt:l  British  matron— sitting  at 
the  head  of  a  husband'?  table — bringing  up  children  in  the  way 
they  should  walk,  going  three  times  every  Sunday  to  churcl^ 
visiting  the  poor  of  the  parisii,  distributing  tracts  and  blankets 
at  Christmas,  and  dying  at  last  full  of  years,  and  good  works, 
and  having  my  virtues  inscnbed  in  letters  of  gold  on  a  granite 
shaft.  I  might  have  been  all  this,  Mis.s  Dangertield,  and  1 
«ranted  to  be,  but  that  dead  mother  of  yours  stepiHjd  forward, 
interposed  her  wand  of  authority,  and  lo  !  to-day,  and  for  the 
past  eighteen  years,  I  have  been  a  Bohemian — houseless,  friend- 
icss,  peixniless,  and  reijutationless.  Now,  listen — here  is  uie 
story.  No  names,  mind  ;  no  questions  when  1  have  done.  AIS 
rou  are  to  know  I  will  tell  you.  Your  father  lives — you  have 
hosts  of  relatives  alive,  for  that  matter,  but  1  don't  mean  you 
shall  ever,  see  or  know  any  of  them." 

She  sank  back  m  her  chair,  played  with  her  watch-chaiin, 
l«o??»d  at  the  fire,  and  told  her  story  in  rapid  woids. 

*'  Your  mother  was  just  my  age  ^fhen  I  first  knew  ho* — • 
iSl^  the  dldcT,  I  tliink — and  iust  ^AarridMi      She  vo'Asii't  bftQd> 


i9$ 


BRPORF    f^fnNIGHT 


'J 


bnt  sornehovr  she  ',vas  attractiv — m^st  peojWe  liked  aev 
— I  did  myself  for  a  time.  And  she  was  a  gieat  heiregs,  shf 
muB  the  wife  of  the  handsomest  man  in  England,  and  she  lo  /ed 
him — ah,  well  I  as  you  loved  poor  Mr.  Dantree,  perhaps*  icd 
not  much  more  wisely. 

"  I  live-i  with  her  -never  mind  in  what  capacity  ;  I  Ifrei? 
with  her,  and  knew  more  of  her  than  any  other  human  beiof 
iilive,  including  her  husband.  Indeed  after  the  honeymoon— 
and  how  he  used  to  yav/n  and  smoke  during  the  honeymoon-  - 
he  saw  as  little  of  her  as  possible.  She  was  t*he  woman  he  wa^ 
married  to,  and  the  woman  he  loved  was  as  beautiful  as  ail  the 
angels,  and  not  worth  a  farthing.  It's  a  very  old  state  of 
thmgs,  Miss  Oangerfield — nothing  novel  about  it.  You/ 
mother  was  frantically  jealcvs,  and  having  the  temper  of  i 
spoiled  child,  made  his  lor — I  mean,  made  your  father's  life  a 
martyrdom,  with  endless  tears  and  reproaches.  When  she  sat 
sobbing  sometimes,  swelling  her  eyes,  and  reddening  her  nose, 
and  looking  very  ugly,  i  used  to  pity  her,  and  once  I  ventured 
to  offer  my  humble  sympathy,  and  call  my — her  husband  4 
wretch.  Do  you  know  how  she  received  it  ?  She  jumped  up 
%nd  slapped  my  face." 

*'I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  Katherine  said,  with  composure. 
"  She  served  you  right." 

**  Ah !  no  doubt  I  You  would  have  done  the  same,  I  am 
fore.  We%  it  was  about  that  time  the  romance  of  my  life 
began.  \  cor  mother's  brother  came  from  Ireland  to  make  her 
a  viiit,  and  we  met.  He  was  only  twenty ;  I  was  your  age, 
seventeen.  He  was  handsome  and  poor — your  mother  had  got 
all  the  money,  he  all  the  beauty  of  the  family.  I  was — my 
modesty  makes  me  hesitate  to  say  it — considered  pretty  in  those 
days — that  is,  in  a  certain  gypsy  style  of  prettiness.  It  was  a 
style  that  suited  him,  at  least,  and  we  looked  at  each  other,  and 
Ssll  in  love,  and  earth  turned  to  Paradise,  and  we  were  ajaoong 
file  blest. 

"  I  don't  need  to  tell  you  what  followed,  do  I  ? — the  mee^ 
ings  by  chance,  the  appointments,  the  twilight  walk,  the  moon* 
light  rambles,  the  delicious  blissful  folly  of  it  all  ?  No  need  t« 
tcU  you — your  own  experience  is  recent.  I^et  me  skip  the 
sentunental  and  keep  to  hard  facts.  A  month  pasted— court 
ship  progresses  rapidly  with  two  j^eople  of  twenty  and  seve^n- 
teen.  We  were  engaged  and  we  must  be  married  at  once,  or 
Ule  would  be  insupportable.  But  how  ?  Youths  of  twenty  and 
girif  of  seventeen  eannot  marry  rlande«ttiiely  and  yet  Ifjnl^ 


n 


»EFOffg  MinNrarrr 


\r% 


iiked  ACi 
less,  sh( 
he  lo  /ed 
aps,  led 

1  I  Ifre^ 
an  beuif 
'moon— 
mioon-- 
Ji  he  wai 
IS  ail  the 
state  of 
Yom 
[)er  of  1 
\t%  life  a 
1  she  sat 
ler  nose, 
k'entured 
sband  a 
nped  up 

apofiure. 

le,  I  am 

ray  life 

lake  her 

wa  age, 

had  got 

as — my 

in  those 

t  was  a 

ler,  and 

aiaoong 

e  raee^ 
moon* 

leed  lA 
dp  the 
-court 

S€V?«. 

nee,  Of 
ityaxid 

IfMltl 


S)  liiifiand,  except  under  very  great  ditfirultirs — under  perjury 
m  fact  As  d^ej)ly  as  he  adored  me,  he  wii^  not  pre^^arcd  l*> 
peijure  himself  on  my  account.  We  must  try  a  Scotch  rntr 
riace  for  it — there  was  nothing  else — and  think  about  the  Ic- 
fality  afterward.  He  was  poor — I  was  poorer.  What  wf 
ipwre  to  live  on  after  marriage  was  an  unanswerable  question 
We  Qicver  tried  to  answer  it — we  must  be  married  first  at  al^. 
lisks  -time  enough  to  think  of  all  these  prosaic  details  after. 

"  No  one  suspected  our  secret — his  folly  and  my  presump- 
tion, that  is  what  they  termed  it.  We  had  fixed  the  day  of  our 
flight — we  had  packed  our  portmanteaus — in  less  than  a  week 
we  would  be  in  Scotland,  and  united  as  fast  as  Scottish  mar- 
riage laws  can  unite,  when  all  of  a  sudden  my  la — your  mother's 
sharp,  gray  eyes  were  opened  and  s;iw  the  truth.  A  note  of 
his  to  me  fell  into  her  hands  and  she  opened  and  read  it.  Not 
an  honorable  thing  to  do — eh,  Katherine?  It  told  her  all — ol 
our  flight  in  two  days,  of  our  proposed  marriage — all. 

"  I  have  told  you,  Katherine,  that  you  are  like  your  mother. 
You  are.  You  have  taken  all  your  troubles  quietly,  and  made 
no  outcry,  no  complaint.  She  took  things  (juietly,  too.  Thr'^ 
hours  after  she  got  that  note  she  came  to  me,  quiet,  composed, 
and  determined. 

"  *  Harriet,'  she  said,  *  I  am  going  into  the  country  for  a  day 
— only  a  day.  Pack  a  few  things  and  be  ready  to  accompany 
me  in  an  hour.' 

"  I  stood  confounded.  He  was  away  ;  what  would  he  say 
when  he  came  back.  But  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  disobey, 
and  then — only  for  a  day.    We  would  be  back  in  time  after  alL 

"  For  a  day  '  Katherine,  she  never  stopped  until  we  were 
In  Cornwall.  She  had  an  uncle,  a  rector  there  ;  he  and  his 
w»f<?  Hved  in  a  lonesome  old  gray  house  on  the  sea-coast.  It 
was  late  j.t  night  when  the  nimblmg  stage-coach  brought  us  to 
*^e  door  ;  and  I  was  wun»  oat  with  fatigue.  1  asked  for  some 
*a  ;  my — your  mother  gave  it  to  me  graciously,  with  her  own 
iuuid,  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  sleeping  potion  in  the  cup. 

"  *  You  must  be  tired,  my  poor  Harriet,'  she  said  ;  *  and  you 
didn't  tliink  we  were  coming  all  the  way  to  Cornwall.  No 
moie  did  I,  but  I  took  a  sudden  fancy  to  pay  the  old  place  a 
lying  visit.' 

"  *  A  flying  visit  ? '  I  repeated  wearily.    '  Then  you  mean — ' 

'"To  return  to  town  to-morrow,  my  dear  child.  Certainly 
WW  don't  suppose  /  could  exist  here,  and  in  the  height  of  the 
Loadon  8ea8on>;£x>  ?     But  I  think  country  air  and  solitude  w^ 


tl  -— 


HHFOKF   MiONiGHT, 


.  ;-i 


I '  ;i     ''■ 


li.ii^f! 


do  jm»  i^ood.     Good  night,  Harriet  ;  you  look  sleepy  ^  don' I 
let  rae  keep  you  awake.' 

**  1  remember  her  laughing  as  she  went  out,  then  my  eyelidi 
swayed  and  fell,  and  I  slept  the  sleep  of  the  drugged. 

"The  noon  sunshine  of  the  next  (lay  nllt-d  my  rcxMii  when  I 
awoke.  I  was  still  lying  back  in  my  chair,  dressed.  1  had  no- 
been  to  bed.  My  head  ached,  my  eyes  felt  hoi  and  heavy — 1 
«ra«  unused  to  opium  in  any  shape  then,  and  its  effects  sickened 
sac  I  struggled  wearily  with  memory.  With  a  sharp  |)ang  1 
recollected  it  was  the  day  fixed  for  my  wedding  day,  and  I  was 
here  alone,  and  he  was — where  ? 

"  And  she  had  done  it  all.  The  first  glow  of  that  fire  of 
quenchless  hate  that  has  burned  ever  since  kindled  in  my  heart 
then.  I  went  downstairs  sullenly  enough,  and  asked  the  rec 
tor's  lady  for  my  mist — for  your  mother.  And  the  rector's  lady 
— in  tlie  secret  too — laughed  in  my  face  and  told  me  she  was 
gone.  Gone !  While  1  slept,  she  was  far  on  her  way  back  to 
town,  and  I  was  left  behind,  without  a  penny  in  my  pocket,  a 
prisoner  in  this  stupid  Cornish  rectory. 

"  {Catherine,  I  shall  pass  over  that  time.  It  is  nearly  twenty 
years  ago,  but  to  this  day  T  can't  look  back  without  some  of 
the  frantic  misery  and  pain  I  endured  then.  I  was  only  seven- 
teen, in  love,  and  a  fool ;  but  the  pain  of  fools  is  -is  hard  to 
bear  as  the  pain  of  wise  men.  \  understood  it  all — I  was  never 
to  see  him  again.  She  had  found  us  out,  and  this  was  her  pk»t ! 
I  threw  myself  face  downward  on  the  floor  of  my  room,  and  lay 
there  for  twelve  hours,  neither  moving,  nor  eating,  nor  speak- 
ing. And  then  I  got  up  and  went  downstairs  and — kept  si- 
lent, still,  and  waited. 

"Two  months  passed  away — two  months.  A  short  tim* 
enough,  as  I  reckon  time  now  -an  eternity  then.  M}  cfdei 
of  release  came  at  the  end  of  that  time.  Old  Markham,  the 
butler,  w*s  sent  for  me,  and  I  was  taken  back  to  town.  1 
asked  him  just  orie  question  on  the  road. 

"  *  Where  was  young  Mr. ? '  and  I  got  the  answer  J  looked 

tot.     Mr, had  joined  the  — th  Rifles,  and  gone  out  to  Can- 

ada  a  fortnight  before. 

"  I  said  no  more.  I  went  back  to  town  ;  and  your  mothes 
and  I  met.  She  looked  a  little  afraid  of  me  in  that  first  mo- 
ment— and  she  had  reason. 

"*You  must  forgive  my  ninning  away  and  leaving  you, 
HArri^t,'  ^  said.  *  It  was  a  whim  of  mine,  a  practical  jokes, 
,§Miiriiig  how  you  hate  the  country,  you  child  of  London*     It 


1 


nEfoftF  MintfrGMT. 


«•• 


py  i  do«'l 
iiy  eyelid* 

m  when  I 

1  had  no- 
heavy — 1 
$  sickened 
.rp  pang  1 
and  I  was 


hat  fire  of 
I  my  heart 
d  the  rec- 
:tor's  lady 
e  she  was 
y  back  to 
pocket,  a 

■ly  twenty 
t  some  of 
ily  seven- 
s  hard  to 
vas  never 
her  plot ! 
1,  and  lay 
or  speak- 
-kept  si- 

ort  tim* 
M}  c^dei 
ham,  the 
town.     1 

I  looked 
t  to  Can- 

r  mothes 
first  me- 

ing  yi>a, 
sal  joke, 
doiu     It 


I't  happen  again,  and  I  have  hosts  of  presents  for  fou  tkat 
f  know  you  will  be  charmed  with.' 

"  I  thanked  her,  and  took  the  presents — took  everything  thai 
WAS  given  to  me,  and  bided  my  time.  I  knew,  juMt  as  well  aa 
^ugh  she  had  told  mc,  how  she  had  laughed  and  ridic\il<Nl  he! 
brother  into  the  army,  and  out  of  England.  I  knew  it  all,  aiv( 
Ae  knew  that  1  knew  it,  but  we  never  spoke  of  it— never  una 
— until  the  hour  of  her  dealii. 

"There,  Katherinc  !  that  is  my  story  ;  that  is  the  secret  ol 
iay  hatred  of  your  mother.    Don't  you  think  she  deserved  it  ? ' 

"From  you — yes,"   Katherine  answered  promptly  ;  "at  the 
uuae  time  1  think  she  did  exactly  right.     She  knew  what  you 
were,  doubtless,  and  took  the  only  means  of  saving  her  brother. 
Gentlemen  and  officers  don't,  as  a  rule,  marry  their  sisters 
waiting  maids." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  sprang  to  her  feet.  That  random  arrow  had 
sped  home. 

"It  is  false!"  she  gasped.  "I  waj  nc^  waiting-maid — you 
know  notliing  -" 

"It  is  true!"  exclaimed  Katherme,  also  rising.  "You 
were  a  waiting-maid — and  I  kr^ow  all  I  desire  to  know  at  pres- 
ent. My  mother  was  *  lady,  her  brother  was  an  otficer  in  the 
— th  Rides,  my  father  lives  and  will  recognize  his  old  servant 
when  he  sees  her,  Harriet  Lelacheur ! " 

Mri  Vavasor  stood  white,  terrified,  dumb.  Good  Heavens ! 
whaH  a  fool  she  had  been  to  speak  at  all  to  such  a  girl  as  this. 

^  You  see  I  know  your  real  name,  among  your  many  aliases. 
A«  I  have  found  out  that,  so  I  shall  find  out  all  the  rest.  At 
surely  as  we  both  live  and  stand  here,  I  shall  one  day  discove' 
jiy  father  and  punish  you.  I  devote  my  life  to  that  purpose— 
to  finding  out  who  I  am,  that  I  may  be  revenged  on  my  ene 
Bii«R  On  you,  on  Peter  Dangerfield,  on  Gaston  Dantree.  1 
Bha^l  one  day  be  avenged  for  all  the  bitter,  cruel  wrong  yow 
Aa%fi  done  me.  I  am  only  a  girl,  alone  in  the  world,  without 
firienJs  or  money,  but  I  shall  keep  my  word.  Secretly  and  in 
the  da?k  as  you  have  worked,  so  I  shall  work,  and  when  my 
time  comes  the  mercy  you  have  shown  will  be  dealt  back  to 
^u.  Now  good-night,  Mrs.  Vavasor.  We  understand  each 
other,  I  think." 

She  opened  the  door,  looked  back  once,  darkly,  menacingly, 
tken  it  closed  afier  her,  and  she  was  gone. 

Minon  sat  up  for  her  mistress.  It  was  close  upon  »««/^»m|^ 
v^ntfn  t^at  mistress  reached  Scarswood.     But  she  felt  no  Uio^gm 


« 


..'^... 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


^o 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


UilM    12.5 

|S0     ■^"       HHl 

■^  1^    12.2 
H:   i:£    12.0 


1.    I. 


1.4 


I 


1.6 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  M580 

(716)  873-4!;G3 


»•» 


**ltRSVKGAM*' 


inwETf}  spint,  whether  of  gooii  or  evi^  suBtaioied  hct 
As  ihe  parted  «^th  the  girl  she  iaid  two  sovereigns  in  her )  uA. 

"You  have  been  a  good  girl,  Ninon,"  she  said,  kindly  **to 
a  Tery  capricious  mistress.  Thank  you  for  all  your  pat^moib 
■ad  good-night." 

She  went  to  her  room,  but  not  to  sleep.  It  was  disorflsfei 
— the  set  it  to  rights.  Her  jewels — all — lay  in  their  ve^/ct  anl 
ivory  caskets,  her  rich  dresses  hung  in  the  wardrobe  tMid  ckM^ 
Its,  her  bridal  dress  among  them.  She  took  a  small  ^rtmiA* 
t?au,  packed  a  few  articles  of  dress  and  linen,  a  few  j(  her  moit 
cherished  presents,  one  or  two  books  and  souveniixt,  closed  and 
locked  it.  Then,  still  dressed  as  she  was,  she  sat  Jown  by  tlie 
rindow  and  waited  for  the  dawn. 

It  came — ^rosy  and  golden,  and  touched  the  eastern  windows 
into  fiaine.  Then  she  arose,  and  taking  the  p«Mtmanteau  in 
her  hand,  went  softly  out  down  the  stairs  and  alos^  to  that  door 
in  the  turret  by  which  she  had  gone  out  and  com%.  in  last  night 
She  closed  it  noiselessly — the  household  were  mt  yet  astu- — 
and  walked  rapidly  down  the  crisp,  frozen  avenu«  to  the  gates. 
The  rising  sun  shot  red  lances  through  the  browK  boles  of  the 
trees,  gilded  the  many  windows  and  turrets  and  tall  chimneys 
of  the  old  hall,  making  a  wonderfully  bright  and  fail  pictiire  of 
ourly  morning  beauty,  had  she  but  turned  to  see. 

But  ahe  never  once  looked  back. 


/ 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


«« 


mSUROAM." 


^ 


Ij 


{ND  how  is  your  patient  to-night,   Mrs.  Otis?     Aiiy 

change  for  the  better  yet  ?  " 

Dr.  Graves  asked  the  question,  blustering  in  like  th< 
god  of  the  wind.  A  hf|eh  gale  roared  without,  a  few 
leathery  flakes  floated  past  the  windows  in  the  stormy  twilieht 
In  the  little  sitting-room  of  the  widow  Otis'  cottage  a  bnghi 
&re  burned  cheerily,  the  red,  warm  light  streaming  through  the 
window-curtains  far  out  upon  the  frost-bound  road 

A  frost-bound  and  lonely  road,  utterly  forsaken  chit  blealr 
JftMMry  afternoon,  on  the  very  outskirts  of  CastieliHrd  a  tiiLi 


**rrsurgam: 


ued  heft 
er  >  iuMi 
lly    »«to 

Octant 
ad  c1m~ 

ler  moit 
>sedand 
\  by  t}ie 

nrindows 
iteau  in 
hat  door 
St  night 
asUr — 
e  gates. 
I  of  the 
himneyi 
ctnre  of 


IfJ 


AAjf 

iketh« 
a  few 

wili^ht 
bnghi 
igh  th« 

bleak 


i 


of  imLile  from  any  other  habitation,  and  flanked  on  one 
^de  by  a  low,  gray  Methodist  chapel  set  in  the  center  of  a 
graveyard.  Fhe  white  and  gray  headstones  glininiered  athwart 
the  wintry  gloaming,  now,  like  white  and  gray  ghosts. 

Mrs.  Otis,  sitting  placidly  before  her  pleasant  fire,  got  up  ar 
Dr.  Graves  come  noisily  in.  She  was  the  neatest  of  all  little 
women,  done  up  in  a  spotless  dress  of  bombazine,  a  spotlett 
white  neckerchief  and  widow's  cap,  and  a  pale,  placid,  moth- 
erly iace. 

"Good  evening,  Dr.  Graves.  I  thought  it  was  Henry. 
Come  to  the  fire — bitterly  cold,  is  it  not,  outside  ?  My  patient 
—well  /  don't  see  much  improvement  th-^re,  but  Heruy  says 
1e  improves,  and  of  course  Henry  knows  best.  Take  this 
chair--do,  and  try  and  thaw  out." 

Dr.  Gr&ves  took  the  cushioned  rocker,  and  spread  himself 
out  luxuriously  to  the  blaze. 

•*  Where  is  Henry  ?     I  wanted  to  see  him." 

**  Oh,  among  his  poor  patients  somewhere — he  will  be  along 
to  tea  presently.     Any  news  to-night,  doctor  ?     1  mean — " 

"  You  mean  tfte  Scarswood  tragedy,  of  course,  ma'am — no- 
body in  Sussex,  i  Deiieve,  talks  of  anything  else  latterly.  No, 
no  news,  and  no  news  in  this  case  does  not  mean  good  news. 
The  funeral  is  over,  as  you  know,  and  there  is  no  will,  and 
everything  falls  to  that  pitiml,  pettifogging  little  screw  of  an  at- 
torney, Peter  Dangerfield — everything,  Mrs.  Otis — everything. 
He's  Sir  Peter  now;  and  among  all  the  baronets  who  have 
leigned  at  Scarswooo  since  the  days  of  James  I.,  I  don't  believe 
ntth  a  baronet  ever  disgraced  a  good  old  name.  She's  not  got 
a  rap,  not  a  farthing,  ma'am — poor  as  a  church  mouse,  and 
poorer,  for  church  mice  can  steal,  if  they  get  a  chance,  and  she 
can't  She's  ffoi  to  work  now,  Mrs.  Otis — got  to  go  out  mto 
the  hard  world  and  earn  the  bread  and  beef  of  everyday  life. 
Nursery  governess  or  something  of  that  sort ;  she  isn't  qualified 
even  for  that,  poor  thmg  !  poor  thing  ! " 

"  But,  Doctor  Graves,  this  seems  a  little  too  dreadful — too 
CraeL  Where  are  all  her  friends — all  our  resident  gentry? 
Must  all  turn  <heir  backs  upon  her  because  she  chances  not  to 
be  Sir  John's  real  daughter  f" 

"She's  down  in  the  world,  Mrs.  Otis,  and  ifs  the  way  of  the 
world  to  speed  the  miserable  sinner  who  falls  with  a  parting 
kick.  Still  in  this  case  a  few  have  come  forward  and  offered 
her  a  home  generously  en  )ugh — the  Talbots,  for  instance,  and 
oU  Mansfield  the  lawyi^r      Hut  she'*;  a  yonng  woman  of  a  veiV 


ill  '• 


En 


^H 


••RESURGAM,* 


U 


!.  'i\ 


ill 


1     I  ? 
i      I ;' 


[.l! 


•Uun)>,  ma'am,  and  charity's  charity,  gloss  it  o««r  af 
vea  may.  She  has  acted  very  strangely  from  Sie  first,  in  thfl 
last  way  any  reaionable  man  might  expect  But  you  nevei  can 
tall  by  what  you  previously  knew  of  her  how  a  woman  will  act 
Iq  any  given  emergency.  The  Turks  and  other  heathens  who 
don't  treat  them  as  rational  beings  are  in  the  right  of  it.  The/r« 
not  I  Don't  laugh,  Mrs.  Otis,  it's  nothing  to  laugh  at.  There's 
that  youn^  woman  !  Quick-  tempered,  passionate,  proud,  een- 
erooa,  loving,  just  the  sort  of  young  woman  to  break  out  mto 
tears  and  hysterics,  and  sobs  and  reproaches,  making  the  place 
too  hot  for  everybody,  tearing  her  hair  and  rending  her  gar- 
ments. Well,  how  does  she  act  instead  ?  Sits  there  like  a 
stone,  never  says  a  word,  never  sheds  a  tear,  and  broods, 
broods  in  sullen  silence.  Women  who  don't  cry  and  scold  are 
women  to  be  distrusted,  ma'am.  If  I  had  seen  her  in  hysterics 
I  would  have  pitied  her  ;  as  it  is  I  honestly  declare  she  fright- 
ens me.  Now  then,  ma'am,  I'll  take  a  look  at  oor  wounded 
snake  in  the  grass,  and  be  off  before  it  gets  any  later  amd 
colder." 

He  jumped  up  and  stalked  away  to  a  large,  airv  chamber 
opening  off  this  cosey  sitting-room.  Like  everythmg  else  in 
and  around  the  widow's  cottage,  it  was  daintily  neat  and  clean. 
The  last  rays  of  the  chill  January  day  came  through  the  muslin 
curtains  aad  fell  upon  Gaston  Dantree,  lying  motionless  upon 
the  bed. 

It  was  an  awfully  death-like  face — in  his  coffin  the  man 
would  hardly  look  more  ghastly,  more  utterly  bloodless  and 
lifeless  than  now.  His  faint  breathing,  his  fluttering  pulse 
were  barely  perceptible — no  more.  His  damp,  dark  hair  fell 
loose  and  curly  over  the  white  pillows,  and  in  all  its  spectral 
bloodlessiess  his  rarely  perfect  face  kept  its  dark  Southern 
^>eauty  still. 

Dr.  Graves  took  his  i^rist  between  his  fingers  and  thumbt 
drew  out  his  watch,  gaie  his  head  a  little  professional  shake, 
and  prepared  to  count  with  that  owl-like  solemnity  of  visafvt 
venerable  physicians  counting  a  patient's  pulse  ever  do  wear. 

And  ever  her  coal  fire  little  Mrs.  Otis  sat  and  mused  sadly 
enough  on  the  (ate  of  that  unhappy  young  lady  w^)  a  few  briel 
da^s  ago  had  been  the  brightest  and  most  blissfol  of  petted 
Iwsiresses  and  baf>|n^  brides  elect. 

**And  how  strange  among  all  she  knew — Dr.  Graves  and  all 
— she  should  have  chosen  my  Henry  to  come  forward  and  cure 
te  mia  sbe  tored)'*  she  thought  >viih  that  g^ow  of  pride  widows^ 


"  KBSUltGAM.' 


IN 


,  in  the 
^ei  cao 
m\\  act 
:ns  v^ 
The/r« 
Theresa 
id,^n- 
>ut  into 
e  place 
ler  gar- 
like a 
broods, 
cold  are 
ystericf 
e  fright- 
ounded 
ter  and 

hamber 
else  in 

]  clean, 
muslin 

>s  upon 

e  man 
ss  and 
;  pulse 
air  fell 
pectral 
nitbrro 

bomb, 
shake, 
visaf«e 
Irear. 

sadly 
w  brief 
petted 

nd  aJ] 
dcure 
d0w«d 


motiMn  4)f  only  sons  always  feel.  **  No  doi  bt  she  knew,  % 
others  are  too  stupid  to  find  it  out,  how  clever  he  is,  how  good, 
how  thoughtful,  how  kind  !  No  woman  couid  ever  be  more 
tender  in  a  sick  room  than  he  ;  and  if  it  be  possible  for  earthly 
physician  or  earthly  drugs  to  bring  this  ill-fated  young  maa 
round,  Henry  is  the  one  to  do  it.  But  I  doubt  it — I  doubt  it 
He  looks  like  death,  and  he  knows  nothing  or  nobody.  Hark 
kere  is  Henry  now  !  " 

)  She  started  forward.  The  front  hall  door  opened,  a  quick 
iootstep  crossed  the  passage,  the  sitting-room  door  was  flung 
wide,  and  Mr.  Henry  Otis,  "booted  and  spurred,"  stood  pale 
as  a  ghost  before  his  mother. 

"  Henry  !  "  the  word  was  a  low,  frightened  cry,  but  Henry 
Otis'  eyes  turned  from  her  to  the  bedroom. 

"  Is  she  here  ?  Who  ii  that  ?  "  He  strode  across  the  room 
to  the  inner  chamber,  then  fell  back  with  a  look  of  sick  disap- 
pointment "  Dr.  Graves  I "  he  said,  "  only  you.  And  I  was 
sure  I  should  find  her  here." 

"  Find  whom  here  ?    What  do  you  mea  ,  young  man  ?  " 

" I  mean  Miss  Dangerfield.  What !  don't  you  know?  S^v: 
ran  away  either  last  night  or  this  morning  from  Scarswood,  aira 
no  tale  or  tidings  of  her  are  to  be  found,  i  ibought  she  migbi 
have  come  here  to — to  see  him." 

He  crossed  abruptly  to  the  fire,  and  stood  staring  into  it  with 
a  greatly  disturbed  face. 

"  Run  away !  "  the  widow  and  the  doctor  both  exclaimed. 

"  Yes — run  away — to  her  deatli,  most  likely." 

"  Henry  1      Good  Heaven ! " 

"  Women  have  been  driven  to  their  death  before  now  by 
men — girls  have  committed  suicide  for  less  than  she  has  under 
gone.  It  is  not  those  who  make  most  outcry  over  their  troubles 
who  feel  them  deepest.  Wha*  has  she  left  to  live  for — robbed 
^ all  at  one  blow?" 

He  spoke  bitterly — more  bitterly  than  they  dreamed  he  felt 
Months  ago  he  had  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  darkly  brilliant  heiress 
of  Scarswood,  and  had  been  mad  enough  to  fall  in  love  with  her. 
To  him  she  had  looked  the  fairest,  brightest,  best  of  womeR, 
and  not  his  own  mother  had  ever  guessed  it  But  some  of  the 
sharp,  cruel  pain  of  loss  broke  cut  of  his  voice  now. 

"When  I  think  of  her,  and  of  him — the  traitor — the  daa> 
tard  I " — he  looked  angrily  toward  the  sick  room — "  I  feel  as 
though  1  should  like  to  strangle  him.  If  she  is  dead,  thee 
Peter  Dangerfield  and  (^.r.^'cu  pp  »ref'  are  ?a  surely  uuird^r^s 
*«  «vpr  C'sin  vy^--,  " 


I! 


t 


t96 


^/fESUMGAM.^ 


i; 


**Mr.  Heniy  Otit,"  exclaimed  \h  OravtA,  with  tspeiitjr 
**  will  yon  restrain  this  incoherent  language  and  violent  manner, 
and  tell  us  in  a  composed  and  Christian  way  what  han  ha{> 
pened  ?  Miss  Dangerfield  went  home  all  right  after  the  fime 
fal,  with  Miss  Talbot.  Did  she  run  away  herself,  in  the  night 
>r  did  Peter  Dangerfield  turn  her  out  ?  " 

"  Scarcely  that  I  think,"  Henry  Otis  returned.  '*  Kven  he 
would  hardly  dare  do  that.  Mira  Talbot  left  her  at  Scarswood, 
tnd  went  home  with  her  brotiier.  /Vbout  nine  o'clock  she  sud 
denly  made  her  ap{>earance  before  the  landlord  of  the  '  Silver 
Rose/  where  the  woman  Vavasor  has  been  stopping,  asked  to 
•ee  her,  and  was  shown  Vr  her  room.  Mrs.  Vavasor  was  out  * 
she  returned  in  about  half  an  hour,  and  they  were  shut  up  to- 
gether until  half-past  ten.  Then  Miss  Dangerfield  left  the  house 
{done  and  on  foot,  looking  norc  like  her  own  ghost,  the  land* 
lord  says,  than  herself.  Her  '^'rench  mr^id  Ninon  let  her  in  a 
little  before  midnight — she  gavt  the  girl  money,  bade  her  good- 
night and  left  her.  In  the  morning  idle  was  gone.  Search  has 
been  made  but  no  trace  of  her  as  yet  has  been  obtained.  My 
own  opinion  is  that  she  has  made  away  with  herself." 

"  And  my  own  opinion  is,  she  has  done  nothing  of  the  sort  I " 
curtly  interposed  Dr.  Graves.  "  Only  arrant  cowards  commit 
suicide,  and  whatever  blood  flows  in  M^m  Dangerfield' s  veins, 
there  is  not  one  drop  of  the  coward  in  i^^  She  will  live  and  to 
terrible  purpose,  as  Peter  Dangerfield,  Gaston  Dan  tree,  and 
that  other  littie  villain  Vavasor  will  yet  find.  Katherine  Dan- 
gerfield, wherever  she  is  in  this,  is  not  in  the  other  world — take 
my  word  for  that." 

As  ^t  took  up  his  gloves  and  hat,  with  the  last  emphatic 
words,  there  came  a  rap  at  C*^as  door.  What  presentiment  was 
it  sent  Henry  Otis  to  answei  it  with  such  a  ver)'  unprofessional 
bcmnd.  He  threw  it  open,  And — yes — there  in  the  spectral, 
wiTfctry  dusK  before  him  stood  the  tall,  slender,  somber  figure — 
1j  bUck  robes,  its  white  face,  and  great  solemn  eyes — there 
9S,9od  Katherine  Dangerfield. 

He  could  not  speak  a  word ;  the  unutterable  relief  of  seeing 
1^  a^ve  and  there,  for  a  moment  almost  unmann«^d  him.  It 
was  she  who  spoke  first,  in  that  faint,  sweet  voice  that  haunted 
hioB  forever  after  his  life  lonf . 

"  May  I  come  in  ?     It  is  very  cold,  and  I  want  to  tee 


n 


There  was  something  so  forlorn  inker  look,  in  her  kmelinMi^ 
^  the  soft^  ptemtivc  tone — something  so  like  a  spkit  ibcKA  tiNi 


I 


tspetitjr 

It  manner, 

:  Kan  hap 

the  fiiDc 

the  night 

*  Kven  he 
Icarswood, 
k  she  suu 
he  '  Silvei 
,  asked  to 
r  was  out  * 
iiut  up  to- 
the  house 
,  the  land- 
et  her  in  a 
her  good- 
learch  has 
ned.     My 

the  sort  I " 
is  commit 
Id's  veins, 
ive  and  to 
tree,  and 
fine  Dan- 
►rid— take 

emphatic 
nient  was 
ofessional 
spectral, 
r  figure — 
es — there 

of  seeing 

him.     It 

t  haunted 

It  to  fee 


elinMi^ 


**ltESUItGAM.' 


w 


that  the  wordi  he  woald  have  spoken  died  on  his  lipt.     S^ 
stood  before  him  alive,  but  surely  death  was  pictured  on  hei 

face. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said  simply ;  and  she  glided  past  him,  and  intt 
tlie  presence  of  the  other  two. 

''  My  child  1  my  child  ! "  Mrs.  Otis  said,  with  a  motherly  cry  \ 
"  thank  Heaven,  you  are  alive,  and  have  come  to  us.  S^ 
down ;  let  me  warm  your  hands — poor,  little,  frozen  haudc- 
Oh  !  my  chUd,  what  a  fright  you  have  giver  us  all  1  Where  m 
the  world  have  you  been  ?  " 

She  sank  wearily  down  in  the  crtair,  and  let  her  hands  lie  ki 
the  elder  woman's  warm  clasp. 

*'  I  have  been  with  Hannah,"  she  answered  slowly ;  '^  at 
Bracken  Hollow,  with  my  nurse.  And  to-morrow  I  leave  Cas- 
tleford,  and  I  could  not  go,  you  know,  without  seeing  Gaston, 
poor  fellow.  I  would  have  come  before,  but  i — 1  don't  know— 
my  head  feels  all  wrong  somehow,  and  1  think  I  have  been  half 
asleep  all  day.  And  the  walk  was  so  long — so  long,  and  so 
cold — oh  me  1  and  I  was  so  ^ti  and  stupid  all  the  way.  How 
warm  your  (ire  is,  and  how  nic  e  it  is  to  sit  here  ! " 

Her  voice  died  drowsily  awa} ,  her  head  drooped  against  the 
back  of  the  chair,  her  eyelids  fell  heavily  The  three  about  her 
looked  in  one  another's  stanled  faces  in  dead  silence.  What 
did  this  mean  ? 

"My  child — Miss  Dangerfieldl"  Mrs.  Otis  murmured. 
**  Oh,  look  up  ;  don't  lie  like  that,  Miss  Katherine  t  Miss 
(Catherine  i " 

"  Yei,  papa,"  drowsily ;  **  but  I  am  so  sleepy,  i,::>d  I  don't 
want  to  get  up  to  breakfast  yet.  Has  Gaston  come  ?  It  is 
cold  for  him  to  ride  from  Castleford  to-night — and  he  hates  the 
cold — poor  Gaston !  Call  me  when  he  comes,  papa — I  wan! 
to  sleep  now." 

Her  eyes  closed  heavily  again,  her  mind  was  wandering. 
Her  troubles  had  been  too  much  for  ncr  tnen,  after  all,  and  had 
turned  her  brain.  Dr.  Graves  bent  over  her,  and  shook  bet 
slightly. 

"  Kathcrine  I  Katherine  I  "  he  called ;  "  rouse  up — Gastoc 
has  come — Gaston  is  here  !  * 

She  sat  up  and  gazed  at  hitn,  a  bewildered  look  in  her  eyea 

•*Who  calls?"  she   asked       "  Ch,  Dr.  Graves,  is  it  yowif 
Where  am  I  ?     Is  papa  sick  again  i     Why,  this  isn't — **     Sh 
k>oked  around,  and  memory  seemed    slowly  btruggling  huM. 
*' V^,    ■  know  now- -<h^:  i<!  V?    Or-,;-/  h.;;-- .-     C-'\^\.  ,    is    hf^r-J 


M 


iJi 


I9« 


**Jt£SC/^GAM, 


•  ,t    I! 


ii     i! 


flbe  rote   ii(>  suddenly,  fiillv  liTxeK.      "  {  arr.  going  ^^^lv.  ini  i 
wmt  to  «e<?  Gaston      How  is  hr  to-night,  Mr.  Otis  ?" 

"Much  as  he  has  hc«-h  f.oin  fhe  first,  Miss  Danger^eld— 
tittle  l>etter,  little  wor^:." 

"  But  he  will  not  »ii'!  j*  Mr  Otis,  you  told  mc  he  would  &•' 
die  I" 

"I  think  he  will  not  ;  I  have  seen  wo'.^e  cases  recoTcr.  I 
h  a  sort  of  concussion  of  fhe  brain.  Hr.  i?oes  not  suffer,  or  r 
traal  is  conscious  of  no  saffering.'' 

"ITiank  Heaven  for  that  1  "  she  said  softly.  "  May  I  see 
him  at  once  now — and  alone?  I  <ioTi't  know  when  I  may  sec 
him  again  ;  and,  Mr.  Otif.,  you  have  l)ct!n  so  kind,  will  you  take 
care  of  him  for  me  until  he  is  quite  well  again  ?  I  can't  pay 
you  now — I  am  poor — but  some  day  it  1  live,  1  will." 

**  I  need  no  pay.  For  your  sake,  M  iss  Dangerfield,  I  will 
care  for  him  gladly.  I  would  cherish  a  dog  that  had  been 
/ours." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  the  old  bright  grace. 

"  Thank  you.  I  knew  I  might  trust  you.  1  must  go  befor< 
t  gets  too  late.     Please  take  me  to  him  at  once." 

He  led  her  to  the  chamber  door.  White,  cold,  and  motion* 
less,  in  the  fast-fading  daylight,  Gaston  Dantree  lay.  She  had 
not  seen  him  since  that  fatal  wedding  night,  and  now  she  saw 
him  «gain — ^thus.  She  stood  an  ''  *tant  ;  then  she  entered  and 
closed  the  door.  They  heard  the  aoft  rustle  of  her  dress  as  she 
knelt  by  the  bedside,  then  silence  fell. 

No  one  spoke.  The  moments  passed ;  the  night  had  en- 
tirely shut  down  ;  the  win('  howled  through  the  desolate  cimrch 
yard,  whose  ghostly  gravestones  they  cf>iild  see  glancing  in  the 
darkness.  A  hushed  expectation  held  them — of  what  they 
knew  not — a  •stran^rc,  prophetic  sort  of  awe.  Mrs.  Otis  was  the 
6i"st  to  move.  The  mantel-clock  struck  six  ;  she  turned  softly 
and  lit  the  lamp,  then  stood  waiting  again. 

Five  minutes — ten — no  sign,  no  sound  frem  thil  mner  rooni. 
Fifteen — twc-nty — the  two  men  looktd  at  eacn  other  uneasily. 
Twenty-five-— thirty.     Then  Dr.  (iravcs  spoke. 

"  She  has  been  there  long  enough.  It  is  no  place  for  her  in 
hei  present  state.  Mrs.  Otis,  do  you  go  and  tell  her  to  come 
out." 

The  little  widow,  full  of  foreboding,  tip-toed  to  the  door,  and 
>appcd.  No  answer.  A  second  tap  louder  ;  still  no  reply.  A 
Uuid  rap — loudly  tbii  time;  but  the  '>lj.y  answer  profoundc/*/ 


199 


awav.  9b4  ! 
•angerte  Id- 
le woakl  D*' 

recover.     I 
suffer,  or  r 

"  Ma7  I  set 
n  I  may  sec 
will  you  take 
I  can't  pay 
U." 

srfield,  I  will 
at  had  been 

t  grace. 

i8t  go  before 

and  niction- 


^y 


She  had 
now  §be  wiw 
entered  and 
dress  as  she 

ght  had  en- 
)late  cliurch 
ncing  in  the 
what  they 
Otis  was  the 
umed  softly 

linner  roonk 
ler  uneasily. 

ce  for  her  in 
ler  to  come 

le  door,  and 

\o  reply.    A 

)rofouiidc»f 


I 


"gSSC/JfCAM." 


•*Opai  file   door,  mother!"    called  the  voice  si  her 
MMUiding  strange  and  husky—"  open  at  once  I " 

Mrs.  Otis  ol^yed — ever  so  liitle  at  hrst,  and  rot  looking  UL 
••  Miss  Katherine,"  she  called,  "may  I  enter?" 
9dll  no  response.     Then  she  opened  the  door  wide,  And  »» 
!j9iled  with  a  cry. 

"  Henry,  the  child  h;s  fallen— she  has  fainted  I  " 
Henry  Otis  was  in  the  room  before  the  words  were  spoken. 
Kjitlierine  was  lying  on  her  face  on  the  floor  by  the  bedside, 
where  she  had  softly  fallen.  In  one  second  she  was  uplifV^d  in 
Henry  Otis'  arms  and  borne  out  into  the  light.  Her  head  fell 
limp  over  his  arm,  her  eyes  were  closed,  her  features  rigid. 
He  laid  her  upon  a  sofa — the  two  doctors  bent  over  her — one 
with  hi3  hand  on  her  heart,  the  other  on  her  pulse.  The  heart 
lay  still,  the  pulse  beat  no  longer.  Rigid,  white,  stark  she  Uy, 
already  growing  cold. 

*'  Oh,  Henry,  speak  I "  his  mother  cried.     "  Doctoi  Graves, 
tell  me,  has  she  fainted  ?  " 

The  elder  doctor  removed  his  hand  from  her  heart,  and  stood 
up  very  pale  himself  in  the  lamplight. 

"  Not  fainted,  madaun,"  he  said  quietly  ;  **dt^/" 


Sir  Peter  Daneerfield  sat  alone  in  the  library  of  Scarswood  ; 
the  silken  curtains  were  drawn  ;  firelight  and  lamplight  made 
the  room  brilliant ;  his  purple  easy  chair  was  drawn  up  before 
a  writing-table  littered  with  deeds  and  documents,  and  Sir 
Peter,  in  gold-bowed  spectacles,  was  trying  to  read. 

Tiying — not  reading.  For  ever  between  him  and  the  parch- 
ment page,  a  face  menacing  and  terrible  kept  coming,  the  face 
of  Katherine,  as  he  had  seen  her  last. 

Where  vi  as  Katherine  ?  Dead  or  alive,  she  had  sworn  to  be 
revenged.  Was  she  dead  i*  He  shuddered  through  all  his  little 
craven  soul  and  heart  at  the  thought.  Men  had  looked  at  him 
(laikly  and  askance  all  day,  and  turned  coldly  away  from  him 
while  he  spoke.  There  had  been  whispers  of  suicidke.  What 
if  whUe  he  sat  here  in  this  warm,  lighted,  luxurious  room,  she 
Uy  stark  and  frozen  under  the  stars — dead  by  her  own  hand  ! 

There  was  a  tall,  smoke-colored  bottle  on  another  table,  with 
lUUMes.  He  was  usually  a  very  anchorite  for  abstemiousness, 
bai  he  sprang  up  now,  with  a  muttered  oath,  filled  himself  a 
sdff  fflass  of  tM^andy,  and  draun^d  it  at  a  di aught 

♦*I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  eiven  her  that  ii^emal  three  t^ .« i 
sand,  and  be  han^d  to  it !  *•  he  muttered,  flinfj^  himself  \^,  i 


!      i 


I 

III 


••  KBHUROAAir 

sulkily  in  his  chaii.     "Curse  the  luck!     What's  the  ate  ol  * 
title  and  a  fortune  if  a  fellow's  life  is  to  be  badgered  out  of  hi^c: 
la  this  way?     There's  that  greedy  little  devil,  Mrs,  Vavasoi 
not  a  penny  would  she  throw  oti'.     And  now  ilicre's  Kathcrine 
I  wish   I  hadn't  said  what    I   did  to  her.     If  they  ever  find — ) 
mean  when  they  find  her-   I'll  give  her  that  tiiree  thousand,  ii 
•he  takes  it,  and  have  done  with  the  whole  confounded  thing 
Hut  she's  so  confoundedly  proud  that  likely  as  not  she'll  tiui 
^ntankerous  and  refuse.     Tlu're's  no  pleasing  a  woman  any 
way;  refuse  it  and  you  insult   her,  olTer  it  and  you  insult  hes 
nrjore.     Oh,  come  in,  whoever  you  are,  and  \xi  hanged  to  you  !  " 

This  pleasant  concluding  adjuration  was  in  response  to  a  rap 
at  the  door.  A  tall,  serious  footman  in  purple  plush  breei'hes 
and  white  stockings  appeared. 

"  Dr.  Graves,  Sir  Peter,"  spake  this  majestic  menial,  and 
vanished. 

Sir  Peter  arose,  as  Dr.  (Graves,  hat  in  hand,  very  pale  and 
solemn  of  visage,  stood  before  him.  News  of  Katherine  at  last. 
He  grasped  the  back  of  his  ciiair  with  one  hand  and  faced  his 
visitor  almost  deliantly,  as  one  who  should  say  "whatever  has 
happened  /  at  least  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it" 

"  W  ;11,  sir  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  I  bring  news  of— of  Katherine. 
She  is  found." 

The  little  baronet's  heart  gave  a  great  leap.  Found!  then 
she  had  not  committed  suicide. 

"  Ah  I "  he  said  with  a  look  of  sulk^  injury,  "  I  knew  as  much. 
I  thought  she  wasn't  the  sort  of  girl  to  take  arsenic  or  throff 
herself  into  the  nearest  mill-stream.  So  she's  found,  is  she  ? 
And  where  has  she  been,  pray,  since  she  ran  away  from  Scars- 
wood?" 

He  resumed  his  chair,  folded  his  arms,  and  looked  up  at  his 
Wsitor.  But  still  Dr.  Graves  kept  that  face  of  supematuraJ 
solemnity. 

**  When  she  ran  away  from  Scarswood,  Sir  Peter,  she  went 
to  her  old  nurse  at  Bracken  Hollow.  About  three  hours  ago, 
whUe  I  was  at  Otis'  cottage,  seeing  that  unlucky  chap  Dantree, 
the  came." 

"She  did!  To  see  Dantree,  too,  I  suppose.  Extremely 
fof^giving  of  her,  I  must  say,  but  not  in  iUe  least  like  Katherine 
Dangerfield.  Perhaps  she  is  going  to  turn  romantic  sick-nurse 
to  her  wounded  cavalier,  and  v.vA  l>y  getting  him  to  marry — " 

"  Scof.  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  I "  the  old  doctor  said  hoarsely  • 


he  UM  ol  t 
(1  out  of  hUD 
rs.  Vavasoi 
s  Katherinr 
ever  find — ) 
thousand,  ii 
Linded  thing 
A  she'll  ttui 
womaQ  any 
im  insult  hei 
;ed  to  you  ! " 
nnse  to  a  rap 
Lish  breei'hes 

menial,  and 

ery  pale  and 
lerine  at  last, 
ind  faced  his 
wrhatever  has 

I  Katherine. 

?ound!  then 

lew  as  much. 

nic  or  throv 

mnd,  is  she  ? 

from  Scars* 

:ed  up  at  hii 
supernatural 

:er,  she  went 
e  hours  ago, 
lap  Dantree» 

Extremely 
:e  Katherine 
ic  sick- nurse 
o  marry — " 
id  hoarsely  • 


**ftHSUftifA.\f 


JOl 


"  Aft  another  word,      Katherinr   DangrrfieUl  <%ill  vievcr  marrt 
Gaaton  Dantree  or  u.y  otht^r  mortal  man.     Snc  is  dead  1" 

"  Dead  1 "  Sir  Peter  leaped  from  hin  i  liaii  ay  though  he  haj 
b<«n  speared  "  Dead,  (Iravcs  I  (lootl  (iod!  1  thought  yo* 
laid— I  thought—" 

His  white  lips  refused  to  fjnish  fhc  sentence  ;  he  stood  star 
big  witli  horror-struck  eyes  at  the  elder  man. 

"Yes,  Sir  Peter — dead  !  Of  hcait  disease,  no  doubt,  lateai 
ind  unsuspected.  This  is  how  it  happened  :  She  cair.i  lo  sec 
Dantree  before  leaving  Castlcfortl — llios*!  were  her  words. 
She  looked  shockingly  ill  and  haggard,  and  h"r  mind  seen)ed  to 
wander  a  little.  She  fell  into  a  sort  of  stupor  as  she  sat  before 
the  fire  and  complained  of  her  head.  We  arous^ed  her  after  a 
^  little  time,  and  sh*i  went  into  the   sick  room.     She  shut  the 

door,  and  we  heard  her  kneel  down.  Then  there  was  a  long 
silence,  so  long,  so  profound,  that  we  grew  alarmed.  Mrs. 
Otis  knocked  again  and  again  at  the  door,  and  received  no 
answer.  Then  we  opened  it  and  went  in.  She  had  fallen  on 
her  face  and  was  stone  dead  I  ' 

"  Great  Heaven  I " 

"  She  must  have  been  dead  some  minutes — ten  or  more,  for 
she  was  already  growing  cold.  1  left  her  there  when  I  found 
life  utterly  extinct,  and  nothing  more  possible  to  be  done,  and 
came  here.  It  is  shocking,  Sir  Peter — it  is  horrible  !  And 
only  yesterday  as  it  were,  this  house  was  all  alight  for  the  wed- 
ding." 

And  then  the  old  doctor's  voire  broke,  and  he  turned  hip 
back  abruptly  on  Sir  Peter  an4  faced  the  fire. 

Dead  silence  fell.  The  clock  ticked,  the  cinders  dropped 
Dr.  Graves  looked  fixedly  into  the  ruddy  coals,  and  Sir  Pete* 
sat  stiff  and  upright  in  his  chair,  quite  ghastly  to  look  at. 

"  Dead  or  alive,  I  will  be  revenged  !  "  The  horrible  wordi* 
rang  in  his  ear  like  his  own  death-knell.  They  meant  nothing, 
perhaps ;  they  were  but  the  passionate,  impotent  rage  of  an 
ontraged  woman,  who  knew  his  cowardly  nature  to  the  full,  but 
lh;y  did  theii  work.  Katherine  was  dead  !  and  Katherine  was 
vindictive  enough  to  carry  her  hatred  and  revenge  mio  thai 
world  of  shadows  whither  she  had  gone,  and  come  back  fiora 
the  grave  to  pursue  him.  Greater  and  wiser  than  poor  litOe  Sir 
Peter  Dangerfield  have  devoutly  believed  in  ghos*ts ;  fu  was 
wperstitious  to  the  core.  And  Katherine  was  dead — dead — 
dead  I  Great,  heavy  drops  stood  on  his  pinched,  pallid  (ace^ 
and  hifl  voice  was  hnsky  as  he  spoke  : 


*'JfBS'JRGylM* 


**  Dr.  GraTM,  there  must  be  Koine  miitake  here  -  there  mvtl 
She  couldn't  die  in  that  way — it  is  too  hoirit>lo  -  aikI  she  wat 
•o  young — and  so  strong- -nevor  sick  a  day  in  her  life,  by 
George  I  Oh,  it  is  impossible,  you  know — entirely  impossible 
If  •  a  fit  or  a  faint,  if  you  like — not  death.  Let  us  go  back  and 
see  what  can  be  done  for  her — I'll  go  with  you.  Let  us  be  ofl 
at  once.  I  ttll  you  she  can't  be  dead.  I  don't  want  her  to  die. 
It's  a  prolonged  fainting  fit,  doctor — take  my  word  for  it — noth 
uig  more.  Strong,  healthy  girls  like  Katherine  don't  drop  off 
In  a  minute  like  that" 

"  Sir  Peter,"  the  old  physician  said  quietly,  "  I  am  sixty-five 
years  of  age,  and  for  the  i)ast  forty  years  i  have  seen  death  in 
all  its  phases — lingering  and  instantaneous.  And  I  tell  you  she 
is  dead.  But  we  will  go  to  her  as  you  say — yon  can  convince 
yourself  with  your  own  eyes." 

But  still  Sir  Peter  would  not  be  convinced  ;  would  not — 
t*.ould  not   "make  her  dead."     He  hurried  from  the  room, 
changed  his  dress,  ordered  round  his  horse,  and  in  fifteen  min 
iites  the  two  men  were  gallopmg  full  speed  throu^  the  keen 
frosty  night  into  Castleford. 

The  town  lay  hushed  and  dark — it  was  close  upon  eleven 
now.  Neither  spoke  a  word  ;  the  breathless  pace  did  not  admit 
of  talk.  They  reached  the  Otis  cottage,  its  whole  front  lit,  and 
figures  flitted  rapidly  to  and  fro.  And  Peter  Dangerfi eld's  heart 
.  nder  his  riding-coat  was  throbbing  so  rapidly,  he  turned  sick 
and  reeled  dizzily  for  an  instant,  as  he  sprang  from  the  saddle. 
The  next  he  rallied  and  followed  his  leader  in. 

On  the  sofa,  in  the  little  sitting-room,  where  they  had  first 
placed  her,  Katherine  still  lay.  They  had  removed  her  hat  and 
cloak,  and  loosened  all  her  clothes,  but  over  that  rigid  face  the 
solemn  sea!  of  eternal  sleep  had  fallen.  They  had  closed  her 
eyes  and  folded  the  pulseless  hands,  and  calmly,  as  though 
■leeping,  and  fairer  than  ever  in  life,  she  lay.  The  haggard 
look  had  all  gone  and  a  great  calm  lay  u])on  it 

So  Peter  Dangerfield  saw  her  again. 

There  were  three  persons  in  the  room.  Beside  Mr.  Otis  and 
bis  mother,  the  old  ex-Indian  nurse  from  Bracken  Hollow,  sad, 
gaunt  and  gray,  sat  close  by  her  nurseling,  swaying  ceaselessly 
to  and  fro,  and  uttering  a  sort  of  moaning  cry,  like  a  dumb 
creature  in  pain.  She  lifted  her  inllanied  eyes  and  fixed  therp 
with  savage  hatred  upon  the  pallid  tare  of  the  baronet. 

"  Ay,"  she  said,  bitterly  ;  ♦'  you're  a  fine  gentleman  now,  Ihtlt 
Peter  Dangerfifeldy  and  you  do  well  to  come  and  look  at  youi 


r 


«  Xfi.^rmmAM* 


20^ 


there  mvu 
tnd  she  wat 
her    life,  by 

impossible 
go  back  and 
.ft  us  be  ofl 
t  her  to  die 
"or  it — noth 
n't  drop  off 

m  sixty-five 
en  death  in 
tell  you  she 
in  convince 

roiild  not — 
the   room, 
ifteen  min 
^  the  keen 

pon  eleven 
d  not  admit 
ont  lit,  and 
field's  heart 
urned  sick 
the  saddle. 

y  had  first 
ler  hat  and 
id  face  the 
closed  her 
as  though 
e  haggard 


r.  Otis  and 
3llow,  sad, 
:easelessly 
:e  a  dumb 
xed  then? 
it. 

now,  IhtU 
k  at  youi 


Ibr  yoo're  h^  nmrdcirr,  yv.ik  in.i  ihal  ^png,  falw: 
lk:ed  rilUin  lying  yonder,  is  sure  as  rv  r  mkh  'Trte  mnrdrrrrft 
The  Uw  won't  hang  yon,  I  suppos/*,  but  it  ha?  hur .»  men  wro 
(Uterred  it  less.  1  wonder  you  aren't  aCraid  as  you  look  at 
her  ■fraid  she  will  rise  up  from  her  deAth-bei)  and  accuse 
3rovL 

H«  turned  his  tortured  face  tow  ird  hrr,  ipiitc  horrible  to  ae4 
il  its  fear  and  ghastliness. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  hush  ! "  he  said.  '•  I  never  meant  this » 
I  never  thought  she  would  die  I  I  w<Mild  give  all  1  am  worth 
to  bring  her  back  to  life.  I  couldn't  help  it — i  wouldn't  have 
had  it  happen  for  worlds.    Don't  drive  mo  mad  with  your  talk  1 " 

"Liar !"  old  Hann....  cried,  towering  up  jnd  ronfronfinghim  ; 
"double  liar  and  coward  !  Who  refused  her  her  dying  father's 
bequest  ? — who  offered  her  the  dea(liie::t  and  most  dn^stardly 
insult  k  is  jxjssible  to  offer  woman  ?  And  you  say  you  are 
sorry,  and  ask  me  not  to  drive  you  m,id  !  1  tell  you,  if  the 
whole  town  rose  up  and  stoned  you,  it  would  not  be  half  your 
deserts.  I  say  again,  I  wonder  that,  dead  as  she  lies  there  be- 
fore you,  she  does  not  rise  to  accuse  her  murderer.  Mr.  Henry 
Otis,  this  is  your  house,  and  she  thougfir  you  her  friend.  Show 
yourself  her  friend  now,  and  turn  her  murderer  out !" 

"  Hannah,  Hannali,  hush ! "  interrupted  Mrs.  Otis,  scandal- 
ized and  alarmed.  Whatever  Sir  Peter  might  be,  it  was  not  in 
this  good  womam's  nature  to  do  other  than  reverente  the  Ix)rd 
of  Scarswood,  the  man  of  eight  thousand  a  year. 

But  her  son  stepped  forward — pale,  cold,  stem. 

"Hannah's  right,  mother,"  he  said,  "and  he  shall  go.  Su 
Peter  Dangcrfield,  this  house  is  no  place  for  you.  You  have 
come  here  and  convinced  younelf  slie  is  dead-— driven  to  all  by 
you  and  that  man  yonder.  He  is  beyond  the  pale  of  justice — 
you  are  not ;  and,  by  Heaven  I  you  shall  go  ! "  I  ie  threw  wide 
Uie  house  door,  his  dark  eyes  flashing,  and  [)ointed  out  into  the 
darkness.  "  Gk),  Sir  Peter,  and  never  set  foot  across  threshoM 
fd  mine  again.  She  tume<^  o  me  in  her  trouble,  she  caine  to 
oie  in  her  dark  hour,  and  she  is  mine  now — mine.  Go  I — yoo 
coward,  you  robber  and  insulter  of  helpless  girlhood,  and  come 
here  no  more  I  " 

The  fiery  words  scoiuged  him,  averted  faces  met  him  on 
every  side.  And,  calm  and  white,  Kathcrinc  lay  before  him, 
with  closed  eyes  and  folded  hands  ;  most  awful  of  all !  With 
mix  a  word  he  slunk  away  like  a  whipped  hound,  the  door  closed! 
opoa  him,  and  he  stood  alone  under  the  black  winter  night 


i04 


**  IfESV/fGAM 


k 


lil  I 


! 


^^i 
i" 


i 


Aloce !  Would  he  ever  be  alone  again  ?  Sleeping  an<J 
waldnf,  would,  not  that  terrible,  white,  fixed  fate  pursue  him 
"Dead,  1  will  uome  back  from  the  grave  if  ihe  dead  can!*' 
Would  tiie  wordj«' she  had  spoken,  tie  dreadful  words  he  had 
laughed  at  once,  ever  cease  to  ring  in  his  ears  now  ?  WocU 
they  not  hunt  hin*  until  they  drove  him  niad  ? 

Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  rode  honrie. 

Home  I  What  was  Scarswood  better  than  a  haunted  house 
jKTW?  He  shut  himself  up  in  his  library,  lighted  the  room  ic 
more  than  the  brilliance  of  day,  locked  the  door,  seized  the 
brandy  bottle  and  deliberately  drank  himself  into  a  state  of 
beastly  stupor.  When  morning  dawned,  Sir  Peter,  lying  on 
the  hearthrug,  was  far  beyond  all  feai  of  ghosts  or  goblins  in 
heavy,  bestial  sleep. 

And  Katherine  Dangerfield  was  dead.  The  papers  recorded 
it,  the  town  raiig  with  it — the  whole  neighborhood  was  utterly 
shocked.  That  little  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  Ca«tlrfor^ 
awoke  and  found  itself  famous.  Crowds  flocked  hither  all  day 
on  foot  and  in  carriages,  poor  and  rich,  to  look  on  that  placid, 
dead  face.  And  so  the  tragedy  of  Scarswood  had  ended  thus. 
Sir  John  Dangerfield  lay  in  his  tomb,  f)aston  Dantree,  the  bril- 
liant adventurer,  lay  in  i:is  darkened  room  hovering  between 
life  and  death,  and  Katherine,  so  bright,  so  dashing,  so  full  of 
life  and  hope,  and  love  and  happiness  only  a  few  brief  weeks 
ago,  lay  here — like  this.  "  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death." 
Everybody  shook  their  heads  and  quoted  that ;  the  funeral  ser- 
mon was  preached  fi-om  it.  All  who  had  ever  known  her  bowed 
down  now  in  reverence  before  the  solemn  wonder  of  the  wind- 
ing sheet. 

People  came  forward — two  or  three  of  the  county  families, 
Uie  Talbots  at  theu-  head — and  o^ered  to  take  the  body  and 
have  the  obsequies  of  appropriate  grandeur.  But  Henry  Otis 
•et  those  resolute  lips  of  his,  and  <'  oggedly  refused. 

"  It  waa  to  me  she  came  in  he)  trouble,"  he  answered,  "  not 
to  you.  No  man  alive  has  a  better  right,  or  a  stronger  claim 
now  than  I.  And  I'll  never  give  her  up.  She  refusscJ  all  your 
aid  alive,  she  shall  not  seek  it  dead.  Fiom  my  house  she  goea 
to  yonder  churchyard — I  will  give  her  up  to  none  of  you." 

Editk  Talbot  never  left  the  house.  She  sat  by  her  dead 
friend,  weeping  incessantly.  Feeling  against  the  new  baronet 
ran  very  high  and  bitterly.  No  one  but  old  Hannah  knew  of 
the  terrible  insalt  of  that  other  night,  but  everybody  suspected 
foul  pUy.     He  made  no  appearance  among  them,  but  shut 


*»JfBS(/JfCA.V 


irA 


eeping  an<) 
pursue  him 
lead  can  !  *' 
ords  he  had 
w?    WocW 


mted  houst 
the  room  ic 
r,  seized  the 
I  a  state  of 
sr,  lying  on 
)r  goblins  in 

ers  recorded 

I  was  utterly 

f  Castlrfore* 

ither  all  day 

that  placid, 

ended  thus. 

ree,  the  bril- 

ing  between 

?,  so  full  of 

)rief  weeks 

re  in  death." 

funeral  ser- 

n  her  bowed 

of  the  wind- 

nty  families, 

le  body  and 

Henry  Otis 

wered,  "  not 
onger  claim 
(scJ  all  your 
use  she  goes 
)f  you." 
3y  her  dead 
iew  baronet 
ah  knew  of 
y  suspected 
n.  but  shut 


up  in  his  gk>oiny  mansion  and  drowned  thought  in 

drink. 

The  fhneral  ,oo)l  place  two  days  after,  and  ihcy  laid  her  \m 
a  remote  comer  of  that  little  obscure  churchyard,  among  the 
lowly  of  Castlcford.  A  fir-tree  reared  its  gloomy  branches 
above  the  grave — a  gray  cross  marked  the  spot.  They  laid  hei 
there  in  the  twilight  of  a  wit^y  afternoon,  with  bowed  headAP 
*nd  sad,  solemn  faces,  and  the  story  of  Kathcrinc  Dangerfielvi 
(ras  told  and  done.  One  by  one  they  dropped  away  to  theii 
homes,  Edith  Talbot  among  the  last,  still  crying  behind  her  vail^ 
and  led  away  by  her  brother. 

And  then  Henry  Otis  stood  alone  over  the  grave  of  the 
woman  he  loved  and  had  lost.  He  stood  with  folded  arms 
while  the  short,  dark  gloaming  ran  on,  his  hat  lying  beside  Uni, 
the  keen  wind  lifting  his  hair  unheeded.  He  had  loved  her  as 
Iwi  never  wou^d  love  any  other  woman,  and  this  was  the  end. 

Kathskink, 

iKxAT  17. 

Rrsuroam 

That  was  all ;  no  second  name.  ^Vho  knew  what  that  name 
might  be,  or  if  she  really  had  a  claim  to  any  name  whatever  t 
And  so,  while  he  stood  there,  the  twilight  fell,  and  it  was  his 
mother's  voice,  calling  i^laintivciy,  '^hat  aroused  him  at  last. 

"  Henry  I  Henry !  come  home,  dear '  You  will  get  your 
death  standing  there  bareheaded  in  the  cold  ! " 

An  hour  later,  when  t!ie  slender  crescent  moon  lifted  he? 
sickle  over  the  blue  sea-line,  another  pilgrim  came  to  that  new- 
made  grave,  fearfully,  and  by  stealth. 

Peter  Dangerfield  had  not  dared  come  to  the  funeral,  but  he 
came  now  to  the  grave.  He  was  horribly  afraid  still,  but  all 
the  same,  he  could  not  stay  away.  It  was  like  a  hideous  dream 
to  him.  Katherine  dead ! — that  bright,  dashing  young  Amazon^ 
whose  laugh  had  rang  so  clear,  whose  eyes  had  Hashed  &o  bi  ig^it  I 
Katherine  dead  1    And  they  call  him  ht  r  murderer  1 

He  made  his  way  along  the  little  pathway,  worn  by  huinbia 
feet,  to  the  spot  where  they  had  laid  hei.  The  faint  new  moou 
flickered  on  the  granite  cross.  He  knelt  on  one  knee,  and 
fead  the  inscription : 


Kathxrink, 

iETAT  I 


Rbs 


I7AOAM. 


What  t  brief  record  It  was  I     And,  Rfsurgam — what  did  thav 


\: 


1 


^XJb 


r 


h^  wofidered,  stupidly.     Then  it  iaimei  opOB  him 
"  meant  "I  shall  rise  again,"     *  I  siiaul  risk 


Flora  her  very  grave  the  dead  girl  spoke  and  threatened  him. 

How  long  he  hngered  there  he  never  kn  rw.  He  felt  half 
^tapefied,  partly  with  the  liquor  he  had  been  drinking,  partly 
with  abject  fear,  partly  with  cold.  He  was  all  cramped  and 
•tiff  when  at  last  he  arose  to  go.  His  horse  stood  outside  the 
little  gate.  He  mounted  him,  let  the  reins  fall  upon  his  neck, 
while  hif  head  sank  upon  his  breast.  How  the  animal  made 
his  way  home — how  he  got  into  the  house,  into  his  own  room, 
into  bed,  he  could  never  have  told.  Ail  that  shone  out  vividly 
from  that  night  in  his  after  life  was  the  dream  that  followed. 

He  was  wandering  through  a  dark  and  unknown  country — 
bleak  and  forsaken.  He  could  see  the  stars  in  the  sky,  the  new 
noon,  a  solitary  fir-tree,  and  gravestones  everywher.  It  was 
jne  perpetual  graveyard,  and  a  spectral  figure,  with  long,  float- 
ing brown  hair,  and  waving  white  anns,  beckoned  him  on  and 
Dn.  He  could  not  see  the  face,  but  he  knew  it  was  Katherine. 
He  was  tired,  aad  sick,  and  cold,  and  footsore.  Their  dismal 
"oad  ended  at  last  in  a  ghastly  precipice,  where,  looking  down 
jheer  thousands  of  feet  below,  he  saw  a  seething  hell  of  waters. 
Then  his  snadowy  guide  turned,  and  he  saw  Katherine  Danger- 
field's  dead  face.  The  stiff  lips  parted,  and  the  sweet,  strong 
voice  spoke  as  of  old  :  ^ 

"  Livinij[,  I  will  pursue  you  to  the  very  ends  of  the  eartn. 
Dead,  I  will  come  back  from  the  grave,  if  the  dead  can ! " 

The  woH«  she  had  spoken  in  her  passionate  outburst  she 
•poke  again.  •Then  her  arms  encircled  him,  then  he  was  lifted 
mpf  then  with  a  shriek  of  terror  he  was  hurled  over  that  dizzy 
dtf — mmI  awoke  sitting  up  in  bed,  trembling  in  every  limb. 

Onlf  a  dream  1    Anid  was  this  night  but  the  beginning  e* 


inpoahim 

MALI.   RISK 


atened  him. 
He  felt  half 
king,  partly 
rainped  and 
outside  the 
on  his  neck, 
Lnimal  made 
5  own  room, 
e  out  vividly 
followed. 
n  country — 
sky,  the  new 
efv       It  was 
h  long,  float- 
him  on  and 
IS  Katherine. 
Their  dismal 
Doking  down 
^ell  of  waters, 
rine  Danger- 
iweet,  strong 

of  the  earttu 

Jean!" 
outburst  she 
he  was  lifted 

rer  that  dizzy 

trery  limb. 

beginning  e* 


PART  II. 


<««a 


CHAPIER  I. 


LA   REINK    BLANCHE. 


U'A  place  was  Her  Majesty's  Theater — die  op«m  tlM 
*'  Figlia  del  Regimento," — the  hour  after  the  fk-st  act 
— the  time,  the  last  week  of  the  London  season — and 
the  scene  was  brilliant  beyond  all  description.  "  All 
the  world"  was  there,  and  the  prima  donna  was  that  sweetest 
of  singers,  that  loveliest  of  women,  that  most  charming  of 
actresses,  Mademoiselle  Nillsson. 

Her  Majesty's  was  full — one  dazzMng  blaze  of  light  from 
dome  to  parquet,  tier  upon  tier  of  magnificently  dressed 
(Tomen,  a  blaze  of  diamonds,  a  glow  of  rainbow  bouquets,  a 
flutter  of  fans,  a  sparkle  of  bright  eyes,  a  vision  of  fai  (aces, 
and  lights  and  warmth,  and  Donizetti's  matchless  music  sweep- 
ing and  surging  over  alL 

The  house  had  just  settled  back  into  its  seats,  fur  a  f^w 
mcunents  the  vhole  audience  had  risen,  en  massgy  at  the  cn- 
tiance  of  roysCwy.  In  the  royal  box  now  sat  the  Piince  and 
Princess  of  Wales,  Prince  Arthur,  and  the  Princess  Loui*e. 

The  bell  had  tinkled  for  the  rising  of  the  curtain  u[)on  t«>e 
second  act  of  the  opera  when  a  fashionably  late  party  of  thrrt 
entered  one  of  the  proscenium  boxes,  and  a  thousand  eyes  &&d 
as  many  '* double  barrels"  turned  instantly  in  that  direciica 
You  saw  at  once  that  these  late  arrivals  were  people  of  u:,*.*^ 
and  looking  with  them  you  would  merely  glance  at  two  of  ihi> 
party,  and  thcB  your  eyes  would  have  fixed  as  countless  eyes 
there  did,  upJMi  the  third  face — a  wondrously  fair  face.  The 
party  were  th*?  Earl  of  Ruysland,  his  only  ,/aughter,  the  Li>a> 
Cecil  Clive,  lOid  his  niece  ('.iucvia,  La'./  Dangerfichl  Ar-'i 
the  Earl  of  Ruysland's  only  daughter  Iv ,/  been  the  most  brilliant 
belle  of  this  London  season,  <^s  shw  had  been  of  the  two  pre- 


V   I 


li 


.3 


joi 


I A    *i?/A^/?    BLAI^rHk 


ceding,  and  not  in  all  that  dixzling  house,  not  in  tne  royal  boi 
itself^  kx>ked  forth  a  (airei,  sweeter  face  than  that  which  looked 
with  perfect  self-possession  uvei  the  audience  now. 

She  hJM?  advanced  to  the  front  at  once  with  high-bred  coin 
posore,  drawn  back  the  curtain  with  one  slim,  gloved  risuvl,  and 
leaned  ever  so  slightly  forward,  with  a  half  snn'le  u[)on  hf  r  face 
[n  that  moiical  interlude,  before  the  rising  of  the  curtain  fof 
hit  second  time,  countless  bows  and  smiles  greeted  her,  which 
«ver  way  she  turned.     All  the  lorgnettes  in  the  house  seeme<! 
for  an  instant  aimed  at  that  one  fair  face  and  queenly  head, 
upheld  with  atag-like  grace  ;  but  to  my  T.ady  Cecil  that  was  a 
very  old  story,  and,  with  all  her  woman's  love  of  adoration,  some- 
tkiiig  of  a  weary  one.     She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  after  that 
first  sweep  of  the  house,  threw  back  her  opera  cloak,  all  silk, 
swan's-down,  and  snow  cashmere,  as  seemingly  inditferent  to  all 
those  eyes  as  though  she  sat  in  the  theater  alone. 

A  belle  of  Belgravia — ye  ,  T.ady  Cecil  was  that.  It  was  a 
marvelously  brilliant  face  on  which  the  lamplight  shone,  with 
its  complexion  of  pearl,  its  soft,  large,  lustrous,  brown,  gazelle 
eyes,  its  trailing  hazel  hair,  bound  back  with  pearls  and  roses, 
the  haughty  carriage  of  the  dainty  head,  the  ,>ure  (ireek  type 
of  feature,  the  swaying  grace  of  the  tall,  slight  form.  A  rarely 
perfect  faice,  and  as  sweet  as  perfect,  with  its  dreamy  tend<!i 
eyes,  its  gravely  gentle  smile.  You  would  hardly  have 
dreamed,  looking  at  its  delusive  innocence,  how  much  mis 
chief  my  Lady  Cecil  had  dctie  in  her  day,  how  much,  the  gods 
willing,  she  yet  meant  to  do.  Those  brown,  serene  eyes,  had 
"  slain  their  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands,"  that  delusively 
gentle  smile  had  driven  men  bUnd  and  mad  with  the  insanity 
called  love.  A  pearl-faced,  hazel-eyed  Circe  who  led  her  vie 
Sims  down  a  flower-strewn  path  with  words  and  smiles  of  honey, 
5nly  to  leave  them  stranded  high  and  dry  on  the  desolate  quick- 
land  of  disappointment,  where  the  bones  of  her  victims 
bleached.  A  flirt  by  nature — a  coquette  ripe  for  mischief^  a 
beauty  without  mercy  and  without  heart — that  was  her  ckarao 
ier,  as  half  the  men  in  Ix)ndon  would  have  told  you. 

And  yet — and  yet — how  lovely  she  look*  d  to-night  I  how 
radiant  I  how  spotless  I  Dressed  for  some  a'  ter  ball,  the  loose- 
Galling  opera  cloak  showed  you  a  robe  of  ro  *e  silk,  decolleii,  of 
course  ;  ioft  touches  of  rich  point-lace,  a  c  uster  of  rich  moss 
roses  in  the  corsage,  and  lace  draperies  fa)  ing  open  from  the 
bum  pearly  arm.  Looking  at  her  as  she  »  at  there,  you  were 
tiatf-inclm»d,  knowing  all  the  enormities,  t<    forgive  the  deeds 


e  royal  boi 
tiich  looked 

i-bred  coin 
d  tajnd,  anc! 
)n  he  r  face 
curtain  for 
her,  which 
use  seeine<! 
eenly  head^ 
that  was  a 
ition,  sonie- 
r,  after  that 
>ak,  all  silk, 
ferent  to  all 

It  Tvas  a 
shone,  with 
)wn,  gazelle 
5  and  roses, 
( I  reek  type 
.     A  rarely 
amy  tendri 
lardly   hav<» 
much  mis» 
the  gods 
e  eyes,  had 
delusively 
he  insanit]v 
ed  her  vie 
is  of  honey, 
Dlate  quick- 
ler  victims 
mischief^  a 
er  ckarao 

light !  hoiv 

I,  the  loose- 

lecolleiij  ot 

rich  moss 
li  from  the 
\,  you  were 

the  deeds 


:h 


U   REINE  BLANCHE, 


20C 


of  darkneM  fmmght  by  so  peerless  a  siren.     Fair  and  faUl 
and  ^en  in  repose,  even  with  a  touch  of  sadness,  there  wax 
something  in  it  that  made  you  paraphrase  the  words  of  the 
Bouthem  sculptor,  speaking  of  Charles  Stuart,  "  Something  evi* 
will  beCrdl  her,  she  carries  misfortune  on  her  face." 

Her  companion  wos  a  very  excellent  foil  to  the  fair,  pa^^., 
penfhre  beauty  of  the  earl's  daughter.  lady  Dangerfield  wai 
a  bmnette  of  the  most  pronounced  type,  petite^  four-and-thirty 
yean  old,  and  by  lamplight,  in  diamonds  and  amber  silk,  still 
Tonng,  and  still  pretty.  Her  black  hair  built  up  in  braids,  and 
puffii,  and  curls,  by  the  most  unapproachable  of  Parisian  hair- 
dressers, was  a  marvel  of  art  in  itself  There  was  a  flush  on 
either  sallow  cheek — art,  or  nature?  who  shall  say? — and  if 
the  purple  tinting  under  the  eyelids  made  those  black  orbs  any 
longer,  bigger,  brighter,  than  when  they  canje  first  from  the 
hand  of  a  beneficent  Providence,  whose  business  was  it  but  the 
iad/s  own  ? 

For  the  Earl  of  Ruysland — tall,  thin,  refined,  patrician,  and 
fastidious — he  was  fifty  odd,  with  a  venerable  bald  head,  shin- 
ing like  a  billiard  ball,  and  two  tired,  gray  eyes.  He  had  been 
a  handsome  man  in  his  day,  a  spendthrift,  a  gambler,  a  dandy, 
a  member  of  the  famous  Beefsteak  Club,  in  his  youth.  He 
had  nm  thiongh  two  fortunes,  and  now  stood  confessed  the 
poorest  peer  in  Britain. 

Two  young  men  in  the  stalls  had  been  among  tlie  first  to  take 
aim  at  the  new-comers,  at  Lady  Cecil,  ra'her,  and  the  longes? 
to  stare. 

"Zff  Reine  Blanche  is  lookinjs;  her  best  to-night.  Few 
reigning  beauties  stand  the  wear  and  tear  of  three  seasons  as 
the  White  Queen  does." 

"  La  Reine  Blanche  /  "  his  companion  repeated  **  I  alwayi 
meant  to  ask  you,  Delamer,  why  they  called  her  that.  A  prett] 
idea,  too.     Why?" 

"  F'rom  some  real  or  fancied  resemblance  to  that  other  La 
Reine  Blanche^  Marie  Stuart — dazzling  and  doomed." 

Starsr  No.  Two  put  up  his  lorgnette  and  took  another  survey. 

"Not  fancied,  Delamer — there  is  a  resemblance — quite 
■triking.  The  same  oval  face,  the  same  Greek  ""ype,  the  same 
expression,  half-tender,  half-melancholy,  half-disdainful.  If 
Mary  the  Queen  had  a  tithe  of  that  beauty,  1  can  understand 
now  how  even  the  hard-headed  ScDttish  commoners  were 
roosed  to  enthusi:&sni  as  she  rode  throii;^li  tis'tii  midst,  and  ax&L 
oiit  fts  91111  mail,  *  God  bless  that  sweet  face  J* " 


1 


III         I 


'i^'J    % 


I 


9in 


LA  RBINR  BLANCHE, 


"  That  will  do,  Wyatt.  Don't  you  get  roused  to  ei^thiuiasm ; 
■nd  don't  look  too  long  at  Ruysland's  ]}eerless  daughter  ;  she 
if  like  those — whaf  s  their  names — sirens,  you  know,  who  lured 
poor  devils  to  death  and  doom.  Slic's  a  tlioruugh-paced  flirt , 
her  coquetries  have  been  as  numberless  as  the  stars,  and  nol 
half  so  eternal.  She's  the  highest-priced  Circassian  m  Mayfaii, 
and  you  might  as  well  love  some  bright  i)articular  star,  etc. ; 
and  besides,  it  is  au  courant  at  the  clubs  that  she  was  bidden 
in  and  bought  ages  ago  by  some  tremendously  wealthy  Cornish 
baronet,  wandering  at  present  in  foreign  parts.  He's  a  sensible 
fcUow,  gives  Queenie—  they  call  her  Queenie — no  end  of  mar- 
gin for  flirting,  until  it  suits  his  sultanship  to  return,  pay  the 
price,  and  claim  his  property.  Look  at  Nillsson  instead.  She's 
married,  and  a  marchioness  ;  but  it's  not  half  so  dangerous, 
believe  me,  as  gazing  at  La  Reine  Blanche'* 

" I'm  not  looking  at  your  La  Reine  Blanche^'  Wyatt  an 
swered ;  "  I'm  looking  at  that  man  yonder — you  see  him  ? — 
very  tall,  very  tanned,  very  military.  If  Redmond  O'DonneU 
be  in  the  land  of  the  living,  that  is  he." 

Delamcr  whirled  around,  as  nearly  excited  as  the  principles 
of  his  life  would  allow  a  dandy  of  the  Foreign  Office  to  be. 

"  What  1  Redmond  O'Donnell  ?  the  man  we  met  two  years 
Ago  in  Algiers — Le  Beau  Chasseur,  as  they  used  to  call  him, 
and  the  best  of  good  fellows.  By  George  !  you're  right,  Wyatt, 
It  ii  O'Donnell !     Let  us  join  him  at  once." 

A  few  moments  later,  and  the  two  embryo  diplomats  froii* 
the  F.  O.  had  made  their  way  to  the  side  of  a  tall,  soldierly, 
sunburned  man  who  sat  quite  alone  three  tiers  behind. 

"  What?  You,  O'Donnell !  I  give  you  my  word  I'd  as  soon 
have  expected  to  see  Pio  Nono  sitting  out  the  opera  as  Li 
Beau  Chasseur.  Glad  to  see  you  in  England,  dear  old  boy 
all  the  same.     When  did  you  come  ?  " 

The  man  addressed  looked  up — his  daik,  grave  face  lighting 
<nto  sudden  brightness  and  warmth  as  he  smiled.  It  was  a 
fiandsome  face,  a  thoroughly  Celtic  face,  despite  the  golden 
lam  of  an  African  sun,  with  blue  eyes,  to  which  long,  black 
lashes  lent  softness  and  depth,  profuse  dark  brown  hair,  and 
most  desirable  curling  mustache.  It  was  a  gallant  figure, 
Itraight,  tall,  and  strong  as  a  Norway  pine,  and  with  the  trur 
trooper  swing. 

*"'  Delamer — Wjratt — this  is  a  surprise  1 "  He  shook  handa 
cordially  with  the  two  men,  with  a  smile  and  glance  pleasant 
to  see.     *<  WkeB  did  I  come  ?     Only  reached  London  at  noon 


;i        .,1 


LA  SEINE  BLANCHE. 


311 


ei^thufliasm  \ 
ughter ;  she 
V,  who  lured 
paced  flirt , 
ars,  and  not 
I  in  Mayfaii, 
T  star,  etc  ; 
;  was  bidden 
Ithy  Cornish 
;'sa  sensible 
end  of  mar- 
urn,  pay  the 
lead.  She's 
dangerous, 

'  Wyatt  an 
see  him  ? — 
1  O'DonneU 

le  principleg 
:e  to  be. 
et  two  years 
to  call  him, 
ight,  Wyatt, 

omats  fron» 
11,  soldierly, 
nd. 

I'd  as  soori 
>pera  as  Ia 
;ar  old  boy 

ace  lighting 
It  was  a 
the  golden 
ong,  black 
n  hair,  and 
ant  figure, 
the  truf 

look  handt 

te  pleasant 

m  at  nooD 


fD^aj,  aftoi  a  smooth  run  from  New  Orle&iis  of  twenty-two 
days.** 

♦*  New  Orleans  I  And  what  the  deuce  took  Captain  ODon- 
Dell,  of  the  Third  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  to  New  Orleans  ?  " 

"A  family  matter — I'll  tell  you  later.  As  we  only  remain  i 
day  or  two  in  Ix)ndon,  I  thought  I  would  drop  in  to  h^ 
Majeut/s  and  hear  Nillsson  for  the  first  time." 

**  IVe  /  O'Donnell,  don't  tell  me  there's  a  lady  in  the  case— 
tfiat  the  madness  of  matrimony  has  seized  you — that  you  have 
taken  to  yourself  a  wife  of  the  daughters  of  the  land.  You 
Irishmen  are  all  alike,  fighting  and  love-making-  -Jove-makinc 
and  fighting.  Ah  !  "  Mr.  Delamer  shook  his  head  and  sighed 
faintly  ;  "  she  isn't  an  Arab,  I  hope — is  she  ?  " 

O'Donnell  laughed. 

"  There's  a  lady  in  the  case,  but  not  a  wife.  Don't  you 
itnow  I  have  a  sister,  Delamer  ?  Have  no  fears  for  me — my 
jreaknesses  are  many  and  great — for  lighting,  if  you  like,  but 
not  for  love-making.  A  brilliant  scene  this,  and  faces  fair  enough 
to  tempt  even  so  austere  an  anchorite  as  Gordon  Delamer." 

"  Fair  faces  surely,"  Wyatt  said.  "  What  do  you,  fresh  from 
the  desert,  think  of  Za  Reine  Blanche — that  brown-haired  god- 
dess, whose  earthly  name  is  Cecil  Clive  ?  " 

Suddenly  and  sharply  the  captain  of  Chasseurs  asked  the 
question. 

"  Lady  Cecil  Clive.  What,  O'Donnell  I  has  the  spell  of  the 
enchantress  stretched  all  the  way  to  Africa,  and  netted  you,  too, 
in  her  rose  chains?  Is  it  possible  you  know  La  JReine 
Blanche  V 

"  No,"  the  chasseur  answered,  with  a  touch  of  impatience. 
"  I  don't  know  your  La  Reine  Blanche,  I  know — that  is.  I 
»Dce  knew,  very  long  ago.  Lady  Cecil  Clive." 

"  My  good  fellow,"  Wyatt  munnured  plaintively,  "  don't  call 
her  mine — she  isn't.  The  cakes  and  cream  of  life  are  not  foi 
me.  And  it's  all  the  same — Lady  Cedl,  the  White  Queen, 
Delilah,  Circe,  any  name  by  which  fair  and  fatal  siiens  have  ever 
b^si  known.  There  she  sits,  *  Queen  rose  of  the  rose-bud  gar- 
den of  gills.'  The  laureate  must  have  had  her  in  his  eye  when 
he  wrote  '  Maud.'  " 

The  African  officer  raised  his  glass  and  looked  long  and  ear 
nestly  at  that  brilliant  vision,  rose-crowned  and  diamond-decked 
rhen  hui  giass  dniuued,  and  he  turned  away.  Delamer  k>oke<) 
?»»  him  coriou^.     ' 


«IS 


LA   RRINE  BLANCHE, 


**  The  trail  of  the  serpent  x?  over  all  still  I  \nd  jroo  lmc% 
Mj  Lady  Cecil.     How  was  it — where  was  it  ?  " 

•*  It  was  in  Ireland — many  years  ago." 

**  In  Ireland,  and  many  years  ago.  One  would  think  the 
lovely  Queenie  were  a  centenarian.  Hau*  many  years  ago  ? 
Don't  be  so  sphinx-like.     Before  you  went  to  Algiers  ?  " 

"Before  I  went  to  Algiers-   over  six  years  ago." 

"  I  hope  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  you  going — it  is  a  wa} 
of  hers,  sending  doomed  men  to  exile  !  Anywhere,  anywhere 
out  of  the  world  her  slaughtered  victims  nish.  She  must  have 
been  young  six  years  ago,  but  then  some  of  these  sorceresses 
are  fatal  from  the  hour  they  cut  their  first  teeth.  Say,  mon 
bravty  are  you  too  in  her  list  of  killed  and  wounded  ?  " 

'*  Is  she  so  fatal  then  ?  "  O'Donnell  asked,  shirking  the  ques 
tion. 

"  Fatal !  fatal's  no  word  for  it  I  Ask  Wyatt,  ask  Ix)rd  Long 
lands,  ask  Sir  Godfrey  Vance — ask — ask  any  uian  in  London. 
The  most  merciless  flirt  that  ever  demoralized  mankind." 

"And  still — at  two-and-twenty — I^dy  Cecil  Clive  is  Lady 
Cecil  Clive." 

"  How  pat  he  has  her  age  ?  Yes,  at  two-and-twenty  the  con- 
queress  still  walks  'in  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free.'  But 
the  talk  of  club  and  drawing-room  is,  that  early  next  season  we 
are  to  have  a  brilliant  wedding.  Sir  Arthiu  Tregenna,  to 
whom  she  has  been  pledged  since  childhood,  comes  to  ciairn 
her.  One  might  say  woo  and  win,  only  there  was  no  wooing 
in  ine  case.  If  s  a  family  affair — he  has  the  puiAe  of  Fortuna- 
tus,  she  the  beauty  of  the  Princess  Perfect ;  what  need  of  woo 
ing  in  such  a  case  ?  And  yet,"  with  a  second  curious  loolt 
"  do  you  know  what  she  told  me  one  night  not  very  long  ago  ? ' 

"  Not  being  a  wizard — no." 

"  We  were  at  Covent  Garden  ;  there  was  an  Irish  play — • 
new  thing,  and  I  was  behind  her  chair.  We  spoke  casually  o- 
Ireland,  and  she  told  me  she  had  been  there  and — '  mark  it, 
Horatio ' — that  the  happiest  days  of  her  life  were  those  days  in 
Ireland.  Oh  1  no  need  to  look  like  that !  I  don't  insinuate 
Dy  any  means  that  you  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  Apropos 
of  no  thing,  where's  that  prince  of  followers,  that  paragon  ol 
henchmen,  that  matchless  servitor  of  the  last  of  the  O'Don 
ncUs,  your  man  Lanty  ?  " 

"Ah,  yes,  I-Anty,"  Wyatt  said;  "haven't  laughed  onct,  1 
assure  you,  sln<;e  I  last  saw  Lanty.  Don't  say  you  lia>e  ^efl 
liiro  behind  you  in  Africa  I " 


lA   RRIS^E   BLANCHE 


213 


nd  jroa  k]ic% 


lid  think  the 
yr  years  ago  ? 
ieri  ?  •• 

; — it  is  a  wa) 

re,  anywhere 

iie  must  have 

e  sorceresses 

h.     Say,  mon 

d?" 

cing  the  ques 

k  I^rd  Long 
1  in  London, 
nkind." 
Hive  is  Ladv 

enty  the  con- 
y  free.'  But 
xt  season  we 
regenna,  to 
es  to  Claim 
s  no  wooing 
of  Fortuna- 
leed  of  woo 
curious  looli 
long  ago  ? ' 

rish  play — y 
casually  o> 
—'mark  it, 
lose  days  in 
I't  insinuate 
Apropos 
paragon  0/ 
I  the  O'Don 


ed 


I 


ODC«, 

lu  ha\e  ^ef! 


•'Lanty  ii  with  me,"  O'Donneli  laughed  ;  "  he's  iikeSinbad*! 
Ok!  Man  of  the  Sea.  I  couldn't  shake  hun  off  if  I  would  I'll 
tell  him  you  asked." 

*'  And  you  only  remain  a  day  or  two  in  Lon^n  ? "  said 
Delamer.     "  Where  do  you  go — to  Ireland  ?  " 

"  Not  at  present  We  go,  my  sister  and  I,  to  Sussex  for  a 
ireek  or  two ;  after  that  to  France,  then  back  to  Algiers." 

"Then  dine  to-morrow  with  nie  at  Brooks'.  There's  a  mom- 
bg  party  at  Kew,  the  last  of  the  season,  and  La  Reim 
BUmche  graces  it,  of  course.  No  doubt  she  will  be  glad  to  see 
an  old  friend ;  you  will  come  ?  * 

"  No."  He  said  it  bricHy  and  coldly.  "  Certainly  not ;  my 
acquaintance  with  Lord  Ruysland's  daughter  was  of  the  slight- 
est. I  should  never  dream  of  resuming  it.  Call  upon  me  to- 
morrow at  my  quarters.  Here  is  my  card.  It  is  pleasant  to 
see  a  familiar  face  in  this,  to  me,  desert  of  London." 

"  Cecil,"  Lord  Ruysland  said,  "  a  word  with  you." 

The  opera  and  ball  were  over — they  had  arrived  home,  ai 
♦he  big,  aristocratically  gloomy  mansion  in  Lowndes  Squar^/ — 
the  leaden  casket  which  held  this  priceless  koh-i-noor.  It  was 
the  town  house  of  Sir  Peter  Dangerlield,  Baronet,  of  Sussex — 
of  his  lady  rather — for  Sir  Peter  rarely  came  to  London  in  the 
8«ason,  and  Lady  Dangerlield' s  uncle,  the  earl,  being  alto- 
gether too  poor  to  have  a  residence  of  his  own,  took  up  his 
abode  with  his  niece. 

Lady  Cecil  stood  with  one  slippered  foot  on  the  caq^eted 
itair,  paased  at  the  command  and  its  gravely  authoritativ« 
tone.  It  was  half-past  four  in  the  morning,  and  she  had 
waltzed  a  great  deal,  but  the  pearly  ct>nii)lcxioii  was  as  pure, 
the  brown  eyes  as  softly  lustrous  as  ei^ht  hours  before.  Wui 
her  silks  flowing,  her  roses  and  jewels,  her  iair,  patrician  face, 
she  looked  a  channing  vision. 

**  You  want  me,  papa  ?  "  she  said  in  surprise.  '•  Certainly. 
What  is  it?" 

**  Come  this  way." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  drawing  room — yet  lit,  but  deserted — 
riosed  the  door,  and  placed  a  chair  for  her.  Still  more  sur 
prised,  she  sat  down.  An  mterview  at  five  in  the  morning  I 
What  did  it  mean  ? 

"  CodV  he  began,  with  perfect  abruptness,  "  do  ytm  kaoi^f 
TKMnRA  is  on  hu  way  here  ?    Will  be  tvith  us  m  lef.°  t^ar  ? 


f 

'J 


»l 


i 


il 

p 


•M 


LA   REtKR   BI.AI^CHR. 


It  wms  a  Bort  of  crytnf  dismay.  Th-n  she  imt  silent,  kNikiug 
at  him  afhAst. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  tliere  is  no  occasion  to  wear  that  face  of  coiv 
■temation — is  there  ?  One  would  think  I  had  announced  the 
coming  of  an  ogre,  instead  of  the  gallant  genth.-inan  wh(>3e  wi&: 
fou  are  to  be.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  last  night.  1  ic  is  in  Paris 
— he  will  be  here,  as  I  say,  in  a  v/tiek.  Will  you  read  it  ?  Thei« 
ii  a  message,  of  course,  for  you." 

He  held  it  out  to  her.  As  she  stretched  forth  her  hand  and 
took  it  she  did  not  look  at  him.  A  faint  fiush,  all  unusual,  had 
arisen  to  either  cheek.  She  took  it,  but  she  did  not  read  it — 
she  twisted  it  through  her  fingers,  her  eyes  still  averted. 

Her  father  stood  and  looked  at  her  curiously.  I  have  de- 
scribed Raoul,  Earl  of  Ruysland,  have  1  not? — tall,  thin,  high- 
bred, two  keen  gray  eyes,  a  thin,  c}  nical  mouth,  and  long,  slim 
hands  and  feet.  "  The  ingredients  of  human  happiness,"  says 
M.  Diderot,  pithily,  "  are  a  good  digestion,  a  bad  heart,  and  no 
conscience."  The  noble  Earl  of  Ruysland  possessed  the  in- 
gredients of  happiness  in  their  fulUist.  He  had  never  loved 
anybody  in  his  life,  except,  pcriiai)s,  for  a  few  months,  a  wom- 
an he  had  lost.  He  never  huted  any  one  ;  he  would  not  have 
put  himself  an  inch  out  of  his  way  to  serve  Cod  or  man  ;  he 
was  perfectly  civil  to  everybody  hj  came  across  \  he  had  ncvei 
lost  his  temper  since  the  age  of  twenty.  His  manners  were 
perfect,  he  passed  for  the  most  ajaiablc  of  men,  and — he  had 
never  done  a  good  turn  in  his  life.  He  had  squandered  two 
noble  fortunes^— his  own  and  his  wifL*'s,  and  he  stood  now,  as 
Delamer  had  said,  the  poorest  peer  in  Britain.  He  had  been 
ererywhere  and  knew  everybody,  and  might  have  sung  with 
Captain  Morris  : 

**  la  Hit  I'v*  nuig  «di  changes  through, 
R«a  erory  pleasure  dowu." 

At  fifty  six  every  rood  of  land  he  owned  was  mortgaged,  hi* 
slaughter  ^ras  portionless,  and  he  was  a  dependent — nothing 
better — on  the  bounty  of  his  niece's  rich  husband,  the  Sussex 
baronet,  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield. 

They  weie  a  very  old  family,  the  Ruyslands,  of  course.     The 
first  had  come  ov^^r  with  N^oah  ap.d  'he  Ark,  the  second  history 
mentions  with  William  and  the  conquest.     And  the  one  aim 
%»d  object  of  lx)rd  Rnysland's  life  vva*"  to  see  hi€  only  daughtr 
ii?  bride  o(  Sir  Arthur  1  regenna. 

■•T  have  a  frord  f**  '^^••rilng  to  <i\\'^   you,  Qiiecnic,"   T^rr* 


:!:i 


1 

Li 


Ciil 


LA  REINE  BLANCMM 


MS 


lent,  looking 

f  face  of  coiv 
nounced  the 
n  wh(>se  wi& 
1  c  is  in  Paris 
dit?    Thei« 

ler  hand  and 
unusual,  had 
not  read  it — 
3rted. 

I  have  de- 
ll, thin,  high- 
nd  long,  slim 
piness,"  says 
heart,  and  no 
essed  the  in- 
never  loved 
)nlhs,  a  worn- 
)uld  not  have 
or  man  ;  he 
he  had  nevri 
nanners  were 
and — he  had 
andered  two 
ood  now,  as 
le  had  been 
e  sung  with 


prtgaged,  hi^ 
:nt — nothing 
1,  the  Siisscjj 

tourse.     The 

Icond  history 

Ihc  one  aim 

ily  daughtr 

jnie,"   Tx»rr* 


JlsnlMd  Hid,  alter  that  kmg  patue ;  *<  it  ii  tlik  i  ll«p  flirt 

•*  Papal" 

'*  You  L'.TC  made  ihat  remark  already,  my  dear,"  the  earl 
went  on,  placidly  ;  ''and  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  grow  in- 
dignant I  suppose  you  won't  pretend  to  say  you  tMt  flirt  1 
\'m  not  a  tyrannical  father,  I  think.  I  haven't  hitherto  interfeied 
widi  your  pastimes  in  any  way.  You  were  bom  a  coqnettv, 
poor  child,  and  took  to  it  as  naturally  as  a  duckling  takes  to 
water.  Let  roe  see,"  very  carelessly  this,  but  with  a  keen,  side* 
k)ng  glance — "you  tried  your  small  weapon  first  on  the  Celtic 
heart  of  that  fine  young  Irish  lad,  O'Donnell,  some  six  years 
ago,  and  have  been  at  it  hard  and  fast  ever  since." 

"  Papa  I "  She  half  rose,  the  color  vivid  now  on  the  dear^ 
pole  cheeks. 

"  And  again  papa )  I  speak  tht  ^ruth,  do  I  not,  my  dear  ? 
You  are  a  coquette  bom,  as  1  have  ^aid,  and  knowing  you  pos- 
sessed of  pride  enough  and  common-sense  enough  to  let  no  man 
one  inch  nearer  than  it  was  your  will  he  should  come,  I  have 
up  to  the  present  in  no  way  interfered  with  your  favorite  sport. 
But  the  time  has  come  to  change  all  that.  Sir  Arthur  Tregen- 
na  is  coming,  and  I  warn  you  your  customary  amusement  won't 
do  here.  You  have  had  your  day — you  may  safely  withdraw 
from  the  fray  where  you  have  been  conqueress  so  long,  and  rest 
on  your  laurels/' 

She  rose  up,  and  stood  stately,  and  beautifnl,  and  haughty 
before  him. 

"  Papa,  you  speak  as  if  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  had  power,  had 
authority  over  me.  He  has  none — none.  He  has  no  claim-w 
no  shadow  of  claim  upon  me." 

**  You  mistake.  Lady  Cecil,"  the  cool,  keen,  steel-gray  eyea  ol 
the  earl  met  the  indignant  brown  ones  full — ''  or  jrou  forget  fat 
Arthur  Tregenna  is  your  affianced  husband." 

"  My  affianced  husband  !  A  man  who  has  never  spoken  one 
word  to  me  in  his  life  beyond  the  most  ordinary  civilities  of 
oommon  acquaintance  I " 

"  And  whose  fault  is  that,  Queenie  ?  Not  his,  poor  fellow, 
certainly.  Carry  your  mind  back  three  years — to  yoiu"  firkt 
seaton---your  presentation.  He  spent  that  season  in  London, 
only  waiting  for  one  word,  one  look  of  encouragement  from  you 
to  speaL  That  word  never  came.  You  flirted  desperately  with 
youBg  Lennox,  of  the  Scotch  Grays,  and  when  he  proposed, 
threw  hut  orer.  He  exchanged  into  an  Indian  regiment,  and 
Ike  heart  by  a  Sepoy  bollel^  joflt  one  week  aftov 


'li 


i 


T 


1 1 


ill 


tt$ 


LA    REISF.    BLAW:HE. 


te  Iw^Aine  Lord  Glenallan.  Not  a  pleasant  recoUectioo  Ibf 
ym^  1  ihoald  think,  I july  Cecil ;  but  as  I  said  before,  I  don't 
wiih  to  reproach  you.  You  are  to  marry  Sir  Arthur  —that  is  as 
ixed  as  (ate." 

And  looking  in  his  face,  she  knew  it.  She  sank  back  in  her 
■eat,  And  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  with  a  sob,  more  like  a  child 
IImd  the  bright,  invincible  La  Reine  Blanche. 

"  Papa,  you  are  unkind — you  are  cruel.  I  don't  care  tot  Sir 
Arthur;  he  doesn't  care  for  me." 

<'  Who  is  to  tell  us  that  ?  He  will  differ  greatly  iVom  most  of 
his  kind  if  he  find  the  lesson  a  hard  one  to  lea)  n.  And  you 
don't  care  for  him  ?  My  I^dy  Cecil  do  you  e^  cr — hare  you 
ever  realized  what  you  are — an  earl's  daughter  an  J  a — beggar?  " 

She  did  not  lift  her  face.  He  looked  at  her  g  irnl>,  and  went 
on: 

"  A  beggar — Hterally  that — without  a  farthing  of  allowance — 
without  a  roof  you  can  call  your  own — without  a  penny  of  por- 
tion. Do  you  know,  Lady  Cecil,  that  I  lost  t  no  thousand  on 
this  year's  Derby — m^  alU  Learn  it  now  at  least.  We  sit 
here  this  June  mommg,  Queenie,  paupers — with  title  and 
name,  and  the  best  blood  of  the  realm — pau  )ers  !  Sir  Peter 
Dangerfield,  the  most  pitiful  little  miser  on  ei-rth,  pays  for  the 
bread  you  eat,  for  the  roof  that  shelters  you,  fo  the  carriage  you 
drive  in,  the  opera  box  you  sit  in,  the  servan  s  who  wait  upon 
you.  He  pays  for  them  because  the  Salic  lav  has  exploded  in 
England,  and  he  is  under  petticoat  government.  He  is  afraid 
of  his  wife,  and  his  wife  is  your  cousin.  Th4t  pink  silk  and 
point-lace  trimming  you  wear  is  excessively  be  coming,  my  dear, 
miported  from  Worth,  was  it  not  ?  Take  ca>e  of  it,  Queenie ; 
there  isn't  a  farthing  in  the  Ruy stand  exchequer  to  buy  another 
when  that  is  worn.  And  I  am — unkind,  ouel.  My  dear,  ] 
ihaU  never  force  you  to  call  me  that  again.  Don't  marry  Si; 
Arthur  Tregenna.  You  play  very  nicely,  sing  very  nicely,  diaw 
rery  nicely,  and  walti  exquisitely — what  is  to  hinder  you  turn' 
fng  these  accomplishments  to  account  ?  Earl's  daughters  have 
been  governesses  before  now,  and  may  again.  I  advise  you, 
though,  to  write  out  your  advertisement  &nd  send  it  to  the 
TUiui  at  once,  while  I  have  still  a  half  guinea  left  for  its  inser 
ticm."  He  drew  out  his  watch — a  hunting  watch,  the  case 
aparUsng  with  dbnaonda ;  "  I  will  not  keep  you  up  longer — ^it  ii 
rly  &▼«  ^dock." 

She  Foac  to  her  feet  and  confronted  him.    The  fluA  Jukd  all 
%^  WM  wUter  than  the  roses  in  her  hilr. 


llij  r  I  I 


j.A  lajxE  nr.AXCiiK, 


««7 


UectionfBf 
»rc,  1  don't 
—that  is  M 

3ack  in  her 
like  a  child 

care  (br  Sir 

om  most  of 
And  you 
-hare  you 
-beggar?" 
^,  and  went 

dlowance — 
;nny  of  por- 
housand  on 
ist.     We  sit 
h  title  and 
!     Sir  Peter 
jpays  for  the 
:arri2^e  you 
o  wait  upon 
exploded  in 
He  is  afraid 
ik  silk  and 
ig,  my  dear, 
|t,  Queenie ; 
uy  another 
My  dear,  I 
t  marry  Sii 
icely,  diaw 
T  you  turn- 
ghters  have 
ivise  you, 
id  it  to  the 
br  its  inscr 
the  case 
»nger — ^it  ii 


"This  is  all  tnio  yon  li.ivc  ht'in  telling  nie,  papa  ?  \Vc 
arc  s*)  poor,  s<)  dcpciulcnl  as  liiib — liopclcssly  and  ino- 
tricvaJjly  ruijicil  ?" 

"  llop'cU-'ssly  and  ii'i«'lrioval»ly  ruiiu'd," 

lie  S|K)kc  Willi    pi'iti'ct    calmness.      Kniiu'd  heyoiid  all 

liopc niin  wroiijt^hi  by  Ins  own  hand — and  lie  faced  her 

without  falKM-  or  l>lancli 

She  stood  a  moment  silent,  hei  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
j,.ller — pale,  proud,  and  cold.     Then  she  spoke  : 

'*  What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

"Sir  Arther  Troi^enna  is  worth  thirty  tliousand  a  year. 
I  wish  you  to  mai'ry  Sir  Arthur." 

'*  What  am  I  to  do  .''  she  repeated,  still  proudly,  still 
coldly.  "  He  has  never  SjM.ken  one  word  to  rne,  never 
writl«'n  one  word  that  even  a  vainer  woman  tiiaii  I  am 
could  construe  into  Itjve-makii.i;  ;  and  as  I  am  a  pauper, 
and  he  worth  thirty  thousand  a  year,  it  is  iu)t  supposed 
lu!  marries  me  from  intercste*!  motives.  Does  he  say,' 
touching  the  letter,  "  that  he  wishes  me  to  be  his  wife  ?" 

**  He  does  not  But  he  is  a  man  of  honor,  and  your  name 
nas  long  been  linked  with  his.  To  have  her  name  linked  with 
ihat  of  any  man  compromises  any  woman,  unless  it  end  in 
(Marriage.  He  knows  this.  He  is  the  soul  of  honor ;  he  is 
ct)nung  h.:rre  with  no  other  intention  than  that  of  asking  you  to 
he  his  wife." 

A  rtush  of  pain — of  shame — of  humiliation,  passed  over  the 
exquisite  face  of  the  earl's  daughter. 

"It  is  rather  hard  on  Sir  Arthur  that  he  should  be  oblige'l  to 
marry  rne  whether  or  no,  and  a  Httle  hard  also  on  me.  And 
this  marriage  will  save  you  from  ruin  —  will  it,  papa?" 

"  It  will  save  me  from  ruin — from  disgrace  -  from  exile  f<>f 
Kfe.  It  will  give  me  a  house  wherein  to  end  my  days  ;  it  will 
oiake  those  last  days  happy.  I  desire  it  more  strongly  than  i 
fver  desired  anything  in  my  life.  1  do  nt>t  deny,  Cecil,  that  I 
^ve  been  reckless  and  prodii^al ;  but  all  that  is  past  and  done 
irith.  I  don't  want  to  see  tlie  dau}<hter  of  whom  I  have  been 
•o  pr.»ud — the  toast  of  the  dubs,  the  belle  of  the  ball  rooms, 
the  beauty  of  I^ndon — eating  the  bitter  bread  of  dependence. 
Cecil,  it  is  of  no  use  struggling  against  destiny,  and  your  destiny 
CMS  written  you  down  Lady  Cecil  Tregenna.  When  Sir  Arthul 
ipoaka,  your  answer  will  be  Yer*." 

•*  It—wiU  be  Yes." 

She  pnH  k  wttk  a  tort  of  (^asp  *     Wo  young  queen  upon  tMU 


fi^8 


14  Rpryp  nr.Ai^rrtn 


Uirdne  had  ever  been  prouder  or  purer,  for  all  her  flirting,  tihas 
Lm  Reine  Blanche ;  and  what  it  cost  her  to  tnake  this  conces' 
sion,  her  own  humbled  soul  alone  knew. 

"  Thank  you,  Queenie ; "  her  father  drew  her  to  him,  and 
touched  his  lips  to  her  cheek  for  perhaps  the  third  time  in  their 
existence.  "You  never  disappointed  me  in  your  life  ;  I  knew 
you  would  not  now.  It  is  the  dearest  desire  of  my  heart,  child 
You  will  be  the  wealthiest  and  most  brilliant  woman  in  Eng 
land.  You  have  made  me  nappy.  Once  more,  thanks  veri 
much,  and  good-morning," 

He  threw  open  the  door,  bowed  h-^r  out  with  most  Chester- 
fieldian  politeness,  and  watched  the  tall,  gra<:eful  figure,  in  itr 
lose  silk,  its  rich  laces,  its  perfumed  flowers,  .ts  gleaming  jew 
els,  from  sight.     Then  he  smiled  to  himself: 

"  *It'i  a  very  fine  thing  to  be  father-in  U.w 
To  a  Tery  magnificent  three-tailed  b'«.«'iaw.' 

"She  has  promised,  and  all  is  safe.  '  know  her  well — I 
know  him  well.  The  thumbscrews  of  the  Aoly  office  could  not 
make  either  break  a  pledge  once  y'xs"  a.  Ah,  my  lady !  I 
wonder  if  you  would  have  promised,  e  /en  with  penury  staring 
you  in  the  face,  if  you  had  seen,  as  J  'id,  Redmond  O'DonneO 
k>oking  at  you  at  the  opera  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  went  slowly  up  to  \  tx  rooms  trailing  her  baV 
draperies  after  her,  a  violet  and  ^vld  boudoir,  a  sleeping-roow 
tdjoining,  all  white  and  blue,  /.nd  seated  in  the  boudoir,  stil 
wearing  her  amber  silk,  her  Spanish  laces,  and  opals,  sat  the 
oiistress  of  the  mansion,  S'r  feter  Dangerfield's  wife. 

"What  an  endless  age  yvi  have  been,  Queenie,"  Lady  Dan 

Serfield  said,  peevishly.      '  iVhat  on  earth  could  Uncle  Raov- 
avc  to  say  to  you  at  this  Olessed  hour  of  morning  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  stood  /Neiide  her,  a  touch  of  weariness  on  h« 
pale  face. 

"  He  told  me  SV  Arthur  Tregenna  was  coming — would  hf 
here  next  week." 

"  Ah  1 "  my  la'iy  said,  looking  at  her  quickly,  "  at  last  1  Tc 
masry  you ,  Qr  ienie  ?  " 

She   sloiKi   silent — pained — shamed — humbled  beyond  « 
pressiop. 

"Yon  don't  speak,  and  you  look  vexed.  Queenie,"  witi^i 
enrqgr,  **  yoa  don't  mean  to  say — you  never  will  be  so  silly — 
po  iteiidlf  aUT'-'HM  to  refuse  him  if  he  asks  ?  " 

**M  h»  aAtt**  LmIv  Cecfl  lUMDWIcd-  with  iBcavesiMe  Mk 


Lj4  RRmR  BLANCBR, 


aif 


lirting,  ttiAS 
Lhia  conce* 

to  him,  ami 
time  in  their 
ife ;  1  kiic» 
heart,  child 
nan  in  Eng 
thanks  verj 

ost  Chester- 
figure,  in  it* 
earning  jew 


her  well — 1 
ce  could  not 
uy  lady !     I 

nury  storing 
d  O'DonneQ 

ing  her  baV 

eeping-roow 
oud(?ir,  stil 
pals,  sat  the 

ife. 
'  Lady  Daa 

Uncle  RaoU'- 

?" 

ineas  on  hes 

g — would  be 

at  last  1    Ttf 

beyond  ci 

eenie,"  witJfj 
be  to  liUy— 


^k 


4 


4 


teroeM.  "  Oh,  Ginevra !  don't  let  us  talk  about  it  I  am  t« 
be  ftold,  it  seems,  if  this  rich  Comishman  chooses  to  buy  me. 
What  choice  have  I  in  th«  matter — what  choice  had  y  />u  ?  We 
arc  like  the  lilies  of  the  field,  who  toil  not  neither  do  they  spin 
— as  fair,  perhaps,  and  as  useless.  When  our  masters  come  foi 
OS  we  go— until  then  we  run  the  round  of  Vanity  Fair  and  wait 
(finevra,  1  wonder  what  it  is  Uke  to  be  poor  ?  " 

''It  is  like  misery — it  is  like  torture — i^  is  like  death  f " 
lAdy  Dangerfield  burst  out  passionately.  "  I  was  poor  onoe, 
wretchedly,  miserably  poor,  and  I  tell  you  I  would  rather  die 
1  thousand  times  than  undergo  penury  again.  You  may 
tnow  how  horrible  poverty  is,  when  it  is  more  hi)rrible  than 
jaarrying  Peter  Dangerfield.  I  abhor  both,  but  I  abhor  pov- 
erty most.  No  need  to  look  at  me  like  that,  Qucenie  ;  I  mean 
irhat  I  say.  You  never  supposed  I  cared  for  that  odious  little 
monster,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Ginevra,"  l^dy  Cecil  said,  falling  back  wearily  uito  an  easy 
:hair,  "  I  begin  to  think  they  are  right  in  those  heathen  coun- 
eries — India — China— Jaj)  in — where  is  it— where  they  destrov 
female  children  as  soon  as  they  are  born?  It  is  miserable,  it 
«  degrading,  it  is  horrible — the  lives  we  lead,  the  marriages  we 
aiake.     I  hate  myself,  scorn  myself  to-night." 

Lady  Dangerfield  shrugged  her  shoulders, 

"Strong  language,  my  dear,  and  strong  language  is  bad 
'form'  always.     Has  Iai  Reine  Blatuhf  found  her  Damley  at 

<ftSt?" 

"  If  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  lived  in  these  days,  she  would 
never  have  lost  her  great,  brave  heart  to  so  {)oor  a  creature  as 
Henry  Damley.  '*  No,  Ginevra ;  no  Darnley  exists  for  me 
Men  are  all  alike  in  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-  all  calk  witt 
the  same  drawl,  all  stare  out  of  the  same  club  windows,  all  part 
tficir  hair  down  the  middle,  and  do  nothin?^     Are  you  going?" 

"Time  to  g..,  at  five  o'chjck,  is  it  not?  1  only  stop[x.'d  in 
itrv";  to  tell  you  we  go  down  to  Scarswood  in  three  days.  Sen<? 
for  Desa-ee,  Queenie,  and  go  to  bed-  Even  y(»ur  complexioj. 
«ili  not  stand  forever  such  horribly  late  hours." 

And  then,  yawning  very  much,  I.ady  Dangerfield  werrt  away 
to  bed,  and  Lady  Cecil  was  left  alone. 

It  was  late,  certainly,  but  the  F^arl  of  Ruysland's  dauglitci 
did  not  take  her  cousin's  advice  and  go  to  bed.  On  the  con- 
trary, she  sat  whrre  she  had  left  her  for  over  an  hour,  nevei 
once  moring — lost  in  thought.  Then  she  slowly  arose,  crossed 
over  to  where  a  wnting-cise,  all  gold  aiul  ^bony,  stood  upon  an 


I 


,p! 


Hi-'  f 


r 


'!    . 


n6 


1^.  li&lNK  IiLA^':^^li 


inlaid  tabW,  took  «  tiny  golden  key  from  her  jhatelauit 
and  unlocked  it.  It  conliiiTicd  many  drawers.  One  of 
these,  she  drew  out,  removed  its  contents,  and  stood,  with  a 
smile  half  sad,  gazing  upon  them.  Relics  evidently.  A 
branch  of  clematis,  dry  and  colorless,  a  short  curl  of  dark, 
crisp  hair,  a  pencil  sketch  of  a  frank,  manly,  boyish  face, 
wid  a  note—that  was  all.  The  note  was  yellow  with  time. 
J. he  ink  faded,  and  this  is  what  it  contained  : 

"  DsAR  Lady  Crcil:— I  rode  to  Ballynahapgart  yesterday,  and  got 
»he  book  and  iho.  music  you  wauted.  1  shall  fetch  thenp  over  when  i 
(X>me  at  the  usual  hour  to  day. 

"Respectfully,  R." 

She  read  it  over,  still  wiih  that  half-smile  on  her  lips. 

'*  *  When  I  com(?  at  tlio  usual  hour,'"  .she  repeated, 
"  AuA  he  never  came.  !t  was  the  strangest  thing — I  won- 
der at  it  to  this  day.  It  was  so  unlike  ])apa  to  hurry  ofl 
abruptly  in  that  way — never  even  want  to  say  good-by. 
And  I  used  to  think-  but  1  waK  on!y  sixti  m  and  a  little 
fool.  Still  fools  snir^i-,  1  supi)0se,  as  "greatly  as  wiser 
people.  Some  of  the  '..Id  pain  comes  bark  now  as  1  look  at 
these  things.  How  d'.iToretit  lie  wns — from  iho  men  1  meet 
now.  When  I  read  O'.  Sir  Iiatine(^l«»t  and  Sir  Galahad  I 
think  of  him.  And  1  aia  lo  marry  Sir  Artnur  Trogenna 
when  it  pleases  Sir  Aithar  Tregennu  to  do  me  the  honor 
of  taking  me.  \  have  kej)t  my  relics  lOng  enough — it  is 
time  1  threw  him  out  ./f  the  window." 

She  made  a  .-step  fortv.ird,  as  if  to  follow  the  word  by  the 
deed  ;  then  stopped,  irresolute. 

"  As  Sir  Arthur  lias  not  asked  me  yet,  what  can  it  mat- 
ter ?  As  I  have  kept  them  so  long,  I  will  keep  them  until 
ne  doe*?." 

She  replaced  tliem,  and  rang  for  her  maid.  The  French 
yoman  cam(\  an<l  Lady  Cecil  sat  like  a  gtatue  under  her 
n.and.^,  being  di.srohed  for  rest. 

But  she  was  in  the  breakfast  parlor  a  good  half  hour 
before  either  her  father  and  consm.  She  ^^'a.s  looking  over 
a  book  of  sketches  wlien  Lady  Dangcrlh.sid  entered,  looking 
at  one  long,  intently,  wistfully — a  sunrise  on  the  sea.  The 
baronet's  wife  came  up  behind  the  ejiri's  daughter,  and 
glAQced  over  her  shoulder. 

**  A  preUy  upooae,  Quoenie,  but  nothing   to   inuke  you 


V 
jlll 

llLi 


tt^/SS    ffFR/^CASTL9 


3?I 


s.     One  of 

ood,  with  a 
liently.  A 
rl  of  dark, 
oyieh  face, 
with  time. 


<reu  Uukt  pen8i>  t  (ace.  Of  what  are  yon  thinking  m>  leeply. 
M  jroa  sit  there  at  id  gaze  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  lifted  her  dreamy  eyes. 

**  Of  Ireland.  I  have  often  seen  the  sun  rise  out  of  the  ux 
n^e  this,  on  the  Ulster  coast  And  I  was  thinking  of  the  Akjt, 
GiMcm,  that  can  never  come  again.*' 


rday,  and  got 
over  when  'i 

R" 

her  lips. 

I  repented, 
tig — I  won- 
)  hurry  ofl 
ly  good- by. 
Liid  ;i  little 
y  us  wiser 
IS  I  look  at 
nen  I  meet 

Galuhiul  I 
Trugeuiia 

the  honor 
)ugh — it  ia 

ord  by  the 

au  it  mat- 
them  until 

'he  French 
under  her 

half  hour 
oking  over 
d,  looking 
(  sea.  The 
;hter,  and 

iiuike  yov 


CHAPTER  II. 


IflSS   HKRNCASTLE. 


INEVRA,"  Ivord  Ruysland  said,  in  his  blandest  tone, 
and  all  his  tones  were  bland,  "  how  soon  do  we  go 
down  to  Sussex  ?  I  say  we,  of  course  ;  for  impover- 
ished mendicants,  like  myself  and  Cecil,  must  throw 
ourselves  ori  the  bounty  of  our  more  fortunate  relatives,  until 
our  empty  coffers  are  replenished.  How  soon  do  we  go — nrx* 
week?" 

"Next  Monday,"  responded  Lady  Dangerfield ;  "in  thif. 
days.  Sir  Peter  writes  me,  Scarswood  has  been  rejuvenat«*d 
re-hung,  re-carpeted,  re-furnished,  and  quite  ready.  We  go  on 
Monday ;  very  many  have  gone  already.  Parliament  closes  so 
delightfully  early  this  year.  I  don't  pretend  to  go  into  ecstasies 
over  the  country,  like  Cecil  here,  for  instance  ;  but  really,  Lc»n- 
don  is  not  habitable  after  the  last  week  of  June." 

**  Ah  I  next  Monday — so  soon  ?  Then  we  shall  not  meet 
Tregenna  in  town,  as  I  had  supposed  ?  Still — Ginevra  J 
<mte  to  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  to-day — you  remember  Tregenna, 
of  course.  He  is  in  Paris  at  present,  and  on  his  way  to  us  - 
any  I  trespass  so  far  upon  your  hospitality,  my  dear,  as  to  in- 
\fite  him  to  Scarswood  ?  " 

They  were  still  seated,  a  family  p€urty  of  three,  around  th<: 
breakfast  table.  Lady  Dangerfield  glanced  across  at  h« 
coQsin.  Lady  Cecil  sat  listlessly  back  in  her  chair,  offering 
her  little  curly  King  Charles  a  chicken  wing  ;  she  held  the  lit 
bit  temptingl;f  over  Bijoi^  wrinkled  nose,  now  laughing,  as  h< 
leaped  up  angrily,  while  all  his  tiny  silver  bells  ran^,  not  oner 
lifting  her  eyes. 

^  CeitaiiUF,  Undie  lUoal,  taivite  him  by  all  means.     Sc;:^^ 


I  'I 
i  I! 


^ 


] 


MISS  HERNCASTLR, 


wood  B  big  enough  to  hold  even  the  greai  Coiiiish  baronci 
I  remember  Sir  Arthur  very  well ;  indeed,  I  was  mortalh 
afraid  of  him  in  those  frivolous,  by-gone  days,  and  thought  hi™ 
a  hoTTid  prig  ;  but  of  course  that  was  all  my  lack  of  judgiMent 
Tresent  my  compliments  and  remembrances,  and  say  we  shall 
be  delighted  to  scf  him  at  Sussex." 

"  Thanks,  my  dear ;  I  knew  I  might  count  upon  you.  Si 
Peter,  now — ^" 

"  Sir  Peter  will  do  precisely  as  I  see  fit,"  Sir  Peter's  wif« 
answered,  decisively ;  "  let  Sir  Peter  keep  to  his  beetles  and 
butterflies.  Did  you  know  his  latest  hobby  was  turning  natur- 
alist, and  impaling  horribly  crawling  things  upon  pins  ?  Let 
him  keep  to  the  beetles,  and  leave  the  amenities  of  civilized 
life  to  civilized  beings.  Queenie,  do  let  Bijou  alone  ;  his  bells 
and  his  barking  agonize  my  poor  nerves.  Have  you  no  mes- 
sage to  send  to  Sir  Arthur  ?  " 

"  I  think  not.  Take  your  chicken,  Bijou,  and  run  away 
with  Tompkins,  for  your  morning  airing  in  the  square.  Half 
past  twelve.  Ginevra,  do  we  dress  for  the  flower  show  at 
Cheswick,  or  the  morning  party  at  Kew  ?  " 

"The  morning  party  at  Kew.  1  promised  Lady  ChantiiJy 
not  to  fail  her  a  week  ago.  But  first,  Cecil,  the  children's 
governess  comes  to-day,  and  I  want  you  to  see  her  and  help 
me  decide.  I  advertised,  as  you  know,  and  out  of  the  troops 
of  applicants,  this  one — what's  her  name,  again? — Miss  Hem- 
castle — seems  to  suit  me  best.  And  her  terms  are  so  moderate, 
and  she  plays  so  very  nicely,  and  her  manner  is  so  quiet,  and 
everything,  that  I  as  good  as  told  her  yesterday  that  I  would 
take  her.  She  comes  at  two  for  her  final  answer,  and  I  should 
like  you  to  tell  me  what  you  think  of  her." 

"  And  I  shall  go  and  write  my  letter — your  comphments  and 
».lnd  remembrantes,  Ginevra,  and  a  cordial  invitation  to  Scart 
wood  from  Sir  Peter  and  yourself  And  you  tell  me  Sir  Pctet 
bas  become  a  naturalist  ?    Ah  1  poor,  little  Sir  Peter  I " 

And,  with  a  smile  on  his  lip  and  a  sneer  in  his  eye,  di« 
Elarl  of  Ru)rsland  arose  and  wended  his  way  to  his  study. 

Poor,  little  Sir  Peter,  indeed ! 

Within  nine  months  of  his  accession  to  the  throne  of  Scart^ 
wood.  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  Baronet,  had  led  to  the  "  hyme 
&eal  altar,"  as  the  Morning  Post  told  you,  Ginevra,  only  survir 
ing  daughter  of  the  late  Honorable  Thomas  Clive,  and  relkn 
of  Cosmo  Dabymple,  Esq.  She  was  a  niece  of  the  Earl  erf 
i&liyvlAiid,  ihe  wm  petite,  plump,  pret>,  poor ;  she  WM  aiae- 


iiii  I 


mSS  HERNCASTUL, 


MJ 


ish  baionci 
IS  moitalh 
hoiight  hiiii 
r  judgiMent 
ay  we  shall 

n  3'ou.     SI 

*eter's  mf« 
)eetlcs  and 
ning  natur- 
)ins  ?  Let 
[)f  civilized 
■ ;  his  bells 
ou  no  mes- 

run  away 
Lre.  Haif 
ir  show  a! 

i  ChantilJy 
children's 
and  help 
the  troops 
liss  Hem- 
moderate, 
quiet,  and 
I  would 
I  should 

nents  and 
I  toScart 
Sii  Pct« 
I" 
eye,  tfa« 

Mr- 

of  Scar»^ 
;  "hyme- 
y  surviv 
nd  relia 
Earl  o( 
rai  UBo 


md-tweiity;  rfic  had  twin  daughters,  and  not  a  faithing  to 
bleu  herself  At  the  mature  age  of  twenty -four  she  had  eloi>e<? 
with  a  clerk  in  the  Treasury,  three  years  younger  than  herself^ 
a  name  as  old  as  her  own,  a  purse  as  empty,  and  they  were 
cast  oflf  at  once  and  forever  by  their  families  on  both  sides. 
Their  united  fortunes  kept  them  in  Paris  until  the  honeymooD 
«nded,  and  then  Poverty  stalked  grimly  in  at  the  door,  and 
l^ve  flew  out  of  the  window  in  disgust,  and  never  came  oack. 
They  starved  and  they  grubbed  in  every  Continental  city  and 
cheap  watering-place ;  they  bickered,  they  quarreled,  they 
reproached  and  recriminated ;  and  one  dark  and  desperate 
night,  just  five  years  after  his  love  match,  Cosmo  Dalrymple, 
Esquire,  stirred  half  an  ounce  or  so  of  laudanum  into  his  ab 
sinthe,  and  wound  up  his  chapter  of  the  story. 

Mrs.  Daliymple  and  tke  twins,  two  black-eyed  dolls  of  four, 
came  back  to  England  in  weeds  and  woe,  and  the  paternal 
roof  opened  once  more  to  receive  her.  Very  subdued,  soft  ol 
voice,  gentle  of  manner,  and  monstrously  pretty  in  her  widow's 
cap  and  crapes,  little  Mrs.  Dalrymple  chanced  one  day,  at  a 
water  party  in  the  neighborhood,  to  meet  the  Sussex  baronet, 
Sir  Peter  Dangerfield.  Is  there  a  destiny  in  those  things  that 
shape  our  ends  without  volition  of  our  own  ? — or  is  it  that  we 
nil  must  play  the  fool  once  at  least  in  our  lives  ?  Sir  Peter  saw 
—and  fell  in  love.  Before  Mrs.  Dalrymple  had  been  twelve 
months  a  widow,  she  was  again  a  wife. 

Five  years  of  married  life,  and  living  by  her  wits,  had  sharp 
ened  those  wits  to  an  uncommon  degree.  She  read  the  bar- 
onet like  a  book.  He  was  a  miser  to  the  core,  mean  beyond 
all  ordinary  meanness,  half  monkey,  half  tiger  in  his  nature  ; 
and  her  plumpness,  and  her  prettiness,  her  round,  black  eyes, 
her  faltering  voice,  and  timid  manner  did  their  work.  He  fell 
in  lore,  and  before  the  first  fever  of  that  hot  fancy  had  time  to 
cool,  had  made  her  Lady  Dangerfield,  and  himself  miserable 
for  life. 

She  was  nothing  that  he  thought  her,  and  everything  that 
he  thought  her  not.  She  was  a  vixen,  a  Kate  whom  no  earthly 
Petru^o  could  tame.  She  despised  him,  phe  laughed  at  him  ; 
she  was  master  and  mistress  both  ;  she  flirted,  she  squandered 
his  money  like  water — what  did  she  not  do  ?  And  the  twin^ 
kept  in  the  background  in  the  halcyon  days  of  courtship,  were 
il\  at  once  brought  forward,  the  black  frocks  flung  aside,  gay 
laitans,  maalins,  and  silks  bought,  and  a  governess  engaged 
Scarswood  was  thrown  open  to  the  county,  a  house  in  May 


i 


f    ■■ 


1^ 


I  i\ 


fi 


■■■"   ^ 


I  '11 


t    'I 


'4 


I'  M 


;i      1 


«S4 


4^7.95  HF^y-  \srip„ 


(air  leased,  parties,  dinaci2>,  cunccrib,  u{K*ras— th«*  whole  roand 
of  faahionable  life  run.  And  her  poor  rel.trves  Uxcd  upoo  tits 
like  barnacles  on  a  boat.  The  Earl  of  P^v^ysland  made  his 
houses,  his  horses,  his  servants,  his  cook,  his  hanker  his  nwn, 
without  a  thought  of  gratitude,  a  word  of  thanks.  Hi*  wifo 
•neered  at  him,  her  high-titled  relatives  ignored  him,  men  biack 
balled  him  at  their  clubs,  and  the  milk  of  huinai  ki»..dneu 
turned  to  buttermilk  in  his  breast.  He  beca^ne  a  Hiisatt 
thrope,  and  buried  himself  down  at  Scarswood,  did  hun«6Iy  ai 
his  lady  ordered  him,  and  to«k,  as  you  have  heard  hwr  say,  tc 
impaling  butterflies  on  pins.  If  our  fellow  creatu«es  are  to 
torture  us,  it  is  some  compensation  to  torture,  in  our  turn,  bugs 
and  beetles,  if  nothing  better  offers. 

I^y  Cecil  came  sweeping  downstairs  presently — tall,  and 
slim,  and  white  as  a  lily.  Her  India  rndsliri,  with  its  soft 
lace  trimmings,  trailed  in  fleecy  clouds  behind  her — all  hei 
/ovely  hazel  hair  hung  half-curled  in  a  rich  bronze  mass  over 
the  pearly  shoulders.  A  Mechlin  scarf  huug  about  her  more 
like  drapery  than  a  shawl ;  and  a  bonnet,  s  marvel  of  Parisian 
handicraft,  half  point-lace,  half  lilies  of  th*  ralley,  crowned  tha: 
exquisite,  gold-hued  head. 

T'he  drawing-room  was  deserted — Lad»,  Danger  field  was  not 
yet  down.  Lady  Cecil  was  two-and  tw&.ty,  Lady  Dangerfield 
five-and-thirty,  and  for  every  ten  minuter  we  spend  before  the 
glass  at  twenty,  we  spend  an  hour  on  i\<-.o  wrong  side  of  thirty. 
She  took  a  book  and  sank  down  among  the  amber  satin  cush- 
ions of  a  dormeuse  near  the  open  wind»w,  and  began  to  r«;ad. 
So  she  had  sat,  a  channing  vision,  for  upward  of  half  an  houi, 
when  her  cousin,  in  pale  flowing  silks,  youthful  aid  elegant, 
floated  in. 

"  Have  I  kept  you  waiting,  Queenie  ?  But  that  tiresom ' 
Oelphinc  has  no  more  eye  for  color  or  efiect  than — " 

"Miss   HeriK:astle,  my  lady,"  Soames,  the   footman,  inte! 
nipted. 

And  my  lady  stopped  short  and  whirled  around. 

"  Ah,  yes — I  had  forgotten.  Will  you  take  a  seat  for  a  mo 
oient.  Miss  Hcmcastle  ?  I  was  really  in  such  a  hurry  yester 
day,  when  I  saw  you,  that  1  had  no  time  to  speak  of  anything 
but  terms.  We  sire  over-due  as  it  is,  but — 1  think  you  told  m€ 
foo  never  were  governess  before  ?  " 

"  I  never  was,  my  lady." 

Only  five  short  words,  but  I>ady  Cecil  laid  down  her  book 
and  kwlMd  3^  sorprised  into  sudden  interest     It  was  smrh  a 


m\ 


sle  round 

LlpOD     lU» 

made  his 
his  »»wn, 
Hik  wife 

len  black 

a  Hiisaii 
un«bly  su! 
-er  jay,  tc 
t%  are  to 
urn,  bugg 

-tall,  and 
i  its  loft 
— all  hei 
iiass  over 
her  more 
Parisian 
vned  tha: 

1  was  not 
ingerfield 
efore  the 
of  thirty, 
tin  cush- 
to  r^ad. 
an  houi, 
elegant, 

tiresoftt' 

.n,  iute! 


3r  a  tno 

yestcr 
iythin§ 
I  told  n\( 


it  book 
such  a 


M/SS  HERNCASTLE. 


225 


■w«eC  Toico— HM»  deep,  so  clear,  su  musical  m  lis  timbre.  She 
looked  up  and  law  a  tall,  a  very  tall  young  woman,  dtessed  io 
plain  dark  colors,  sink  into  the  seat  Lady  Dangcrficid  had  on* 
dicated  by  a  wave  of  her  pearl-gloved  hand. 

*'  Then  may  I  beg  to  know  what  you  did  do  ?  You  are  Boi 
excuse  me,  very  young — sevcn-and-twenty  now,  I  ihoitUk 
think?" 

**  No,  my  lady ;  three-and-twenty." 

<*  Ah  1  three-and-twenty,  and  going  out  as  governess  for  the 
&rst  time.     Pray  what  were  you  before  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  shrank  a  little  as  she  listened.  Ginevra  went  to 
WOTk  for  the  prosecution  in  so  deliberate,  so  cold-blooded  a 
manner.  She  looked  at  the  governess  and  thought,  more  and 
more  interested,  what  a  singular  face  it  was.  Handsome  it  was 
not — never  had  been — but  some  indescribable  fascination  held 
I^ady  Cecil's  gaze  fast.  The  eyes  were  dark,  cold,  brilliant ; 
the  eyebrows,  eyelashes,  and  hair  of  jetty  blackness  ;  the  face 
like  marble — literally  like  marble — as  changeless,  as  colorless, 
locked  in  as  passionless  calm. 

"  A  stranpe  face — an  interesting  face,"  Lady  Cecil  thought ; 
"  the  face,  if  I  am  any  judge,  of  a  woman  who  has  suffered 
greatly,  and  learned  to  endure.     A  face  that  hides  a  history." 

"  I  was  a  music  teacher,"  the  low,  melodious,  even  tones  of 
Miss  Hemca.stle  made  answer ;  "  I  gave  lessons  when  I  could 
get  pupils.  But  pupils  in  London  are  difficult  to  get.  I  saw 
your  advertisement  in  the  limesj  for  a  nursery  governess,  and 
I  applied." 

"  And  you  are  willing  to  accept  the  terms  I  offered  yester- 
day ?  " 

The  terms  were  so  small  that  Lady  Dan^erheld  was  abso- 
lutely ashamed  to  name  them  before  her  cousin.  At  heart,  and 
where  her  own  gratification  was  not  concerned*  she  was  as  great 
a  miser  as  Sir  Peter  himself. 

"  I  will  accept  your  terms,  my  lady.  Salary  is  not  so  mudl 
an  object  with  me  as  a  heme." 

"  Indeed  1     You  have  none  of  your  own,  I  presume  ?  " 

"  I  have  none,  my  lady." 

She  msAe  the  answer  quite  calmly,  neither  voice  nor  fiior. 
alterisi;. 

**  Yoa  are  an  orphan  ?  "• 

*'  I  am  an  orphan." 

"Well,"  l.Ady  Danger&eld  said,  ''your  recommendations  «rt 
ecftsinly  tmob^ectionahlc,  ami   f  don't  «»oe  whv  you  woold  iwt 

Mr 


If 

'i 


V  ' 


I 


I- 

*  1 

'    " 

■ii' 

!  i 

i| 

ll 

,1 

m\ 

1 

iPi 

t; 

"a 

''1 

"li 
•1 

ill' 

I 


<       ll 


i.    ! 


iii; 


Sitt 


jr/£9  HERNCASTLR. 


■■h.  jAit  •pen  the  piano,  Miss  Hcrncasth,  and  play  some  lit- 
tie  tiling  that  I  may  judge  of  your  touch  and  execution.  U 
there  be  one  thing  I  wish  you  particularly  to  attend  to,  it  ii  VKf 
children's  music  and  accent.     You  speak  French  ?  " 

»•  Yes,  my  lady." 

"  And  sing  ?  " 

There  was  an  instant's  hesitation — then  the  reply  came  : 

"  No,  madame,  I  do  not  sing." 

"  That  is  unfortunate.     Play,  however." 

She  obeyed  at  once.  She  played  from  memory,  and  chose 
an  air  of  Schubert's — a  little  thing,  but  sweet  and  pathetic,  as 
n  is  the  nature  of  Schubert* s  music  to  be.  It  was  a  favorite  ol 
Lady  Cecil's  as  it  chanced,  but  never  had  the  pearl  keys,  u 
der  her  fingers,  spoke  in  music  a  story  half  so  plaintive,  half  so 
pathetic  as  this.  The  slanting  June  sunlight  fell  full  upon  the 
lace  of  the  player — that  fixed,  dusk,  emotionless  face,  with  its 
changeless  pallor  ;  and,  more  and  more  interested.  Lady  CecU 
half  rose  on  her  elbow  to  look. 

"That  will  do,"  Ginevra  said  graciously;  "thafs  a  simple 
melody,  but  you  play  it  quite  prettily.  Cecil,  love,  what  do  you 
think  ?     Miss  Hemcastle  will  suit  very  well,  will  she  not  ?  " 

"  I  think  Miss  Hemcastle  quite  capable  of  teaching  music 
to  pupils  double  the  age  of  Pearl  and  Pansy,"  replied  Lady 
Cecil,  decidedly.  "  Miss  Hemcastle,  is  it  possible  you  do  noi 
sing  ?    You  have  the  face  of  a  singer." 

Up  to  this  moment  Miss  Hemcastie  had  not  been  aware  a 
third  person  was  present.  She  turned  to  Lady  Cecil,  and  the 
large  electric  eyes,  so  dark  under  their  black  lashes,  met  the 
soft  hazel  ones  full. 

"  I  do  not  sing." 

"  Then  I  have  mistaken  a  singing  face  for  the  first  time. 
Ginevra,  I  don't  wish  to  hurry  you,  but  if  we  go  at  all — ^" 

"  Good  Heavens !  yes  I "  cried  Lady  Dangerfield,  gkncing  in 
9<Sfdden  hurry  at  her  watch.  "  We  shall  be  frightfully  late,  and 
I  promised  Lady  Chantilly — Miss  He  -ncastle,  I  forgot  to  ask 
— ndo you  object  tc  the  country  ? '' 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  prefer  it." 

"  Very  weU,  then  ;  the  sooner  you  come  the  better.  We  go 
down  to  our  place  in  Sussex  next  week — you  will  find  youf 
pupils  there.  Suppose  you  come  to  night — you  will  be  of 
t«  me  in  the  intermediate  days." 

'*  1  will  come  to-night,  my  lady,  f  you  wish  it" 


i 


Ht- 
}n.  It 
t  ii  nny 


ne : 


i  chose 
letic,  as 
orite  oi 
eys,  u 
half  so 
pon  the 
with  its 
ly  CecU 

I  simple 
t  do  you 
)t?" 

music 
;d  Lady 
do  noi 

aware  a 
and  the 
met  the 


st  tune. 

icing  in 

ite,  and 

to  ask 


We  go 

id  youf 

of 


M/SS    HERNCASTLE. 

M^V  night,  then     Soaiaes,  show  Miss  Hemcastk  Mt 
Jioa,  Qaeenie." 


Non 


"  And  what's  your  opinloii  of  the  governess  ?  \V>  At  arc  yoa 
thinking  of  as  you  lie  back  in  that  pretty  attitude,  with  voiv 
eyes  half  closed,  I^y  Cecil  Clive  ?  Are  you  really  thinking  T 
or  is  it  only  to  show  the  length  of  your  eyelashes  ?  '* 

Lady  Cecil  looked  up.  They  were  rolling  along  as  fast  af 
two  high-stepping  roans  could  carry  them,  Kew-waioL 

^'  I  was  really  thinking,  Ginevra — thinking  of  your  gover 
ness." 

"  You  do  my  governess  too  much  honor.  What  were  yoiw 
thoughts  of  her,  pray?" 

"There  is  something  strange  about  her — something  quite 
out  of  the  usual  governess  line.  It  is  an  odd  face — a  striking 
face — a  face  full  of  character.  It  has  haunted  me  ever  since  I 
saw  it — so  calm,  so  still,  so  fixed  in  one  expicssion.  That 
woman  has  a  history." 

"  Really,  then,  I  shall  countermand  my  co  i&ent  I  don^t 
v^ant  a  nursery  governess  with  a  history.  What  an  imagination 
)rou  have,  Cecil,  and  what  awful  nonsense  you  talk  1  A  strik- 
ing face  ! — yes,  if  you  like,  in  its  plainness." 

"  I  don't  think  it  plain." 

"  Perhaps  you  do  think  it  pretty  ?  " 

"  No  ;  pretty  is  a  word  I  should  never  apply  to  Miss  Hen- 
castle.  Hemcastle  ! — a  sounding  appellation.  Whom  have  J 
seen  before  that  she  resembles  ?" 

"  For  pity's  sake,  Queenie,  talk  of  something  else.  Suppose, 
when  you  get  down  to  Scarswood,  you  turn  biographer,  and 
write  out  my  new  nursery  governess's  history,  from  her  own 
dictation.  I  dare  say  she's  the  daughter  of  some  Cheapside 
grocer,  with  a  complexion  like  her  father's  tallow  candles,  and 
whose  piano-playing  and  French  accent  were  acquired  withn 
the  sound  of  Bow  Bells.  Queenie — "  abruptly — "  I  wonder  ^ 
Major  Frankland  will  be  at  Kew  to-day  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  looked  grave. 

"  I  don't  like  him,  Ginevra — I  don't  like  the  way  he  behaves 
with  you — oh,  yes,  Ginevra,  I  will  say  it — nor  the  way  you  be- 
baye  with  him." 

"  And  why  ?  How  does  Major  Frankland  and  my  lowly  seM 
behave  ? " 

"  You  hardly  need  to  ask  that  question,  I  think.  You  flirted 
with  hiiD  when  you   were  fift^^-n.  hv  vout   own  showing ;  you 


}        i 

1 

i 

j 

i^ 

pi 


F^]^ 


n 


El 


328 


Af/SS    //A /CATC AS  TLB. 


flirted  witk  hirn  in  the  tirst  year  of  your  widonrhood,  anJ  ysn 
flirt  most  openly  with  him  now  that  you  are  a  wife.  Gine^n,** 
with  energy,  "a  married  flin  is  in  my  oi)iinon  the  most  dctpii; 
able  character  on  earth." 

"An  opinion  which,  coming  from  my  Lady  Crcil   Cliire  r* 
all  people,  should  have  weight.     Isn't  there  an  adage  about  Mf 
ting  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief?     How  tme  those  old  saws  afC : 
Von  don't  mean  to  flirt,  I  suppose,  when  you  aie  married  ?" 

"Don't  look  so  scornful,  Ginevra — no— I  don't.  If  ever  i 
marry — what  are  you  laughing  at  ?  Well,  when  I  do  marry,  thei 
— I  hope — I  trust — I  feel  that  I  shall  respect  and — and  love  my 
husband,  and  treasure  his  name  and  honor  as  sacredly  as  mj 
own  soul." 

"Meaning,  I  suppose,  Sir  Arthur  Tiegenna?" 

"  Meaning  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  if  you  like.  If  I  ever  be 
come  the  wife  of  Sir  Arthur,  1  shall  never  let  any  living  niai 
talk  to  me,  look  at  me,  act  to  me,  as  lliat  odious,  bearded 
sleepy-eyed  ex-Canadian  major  does  toward  you.  Don't  be 
angry,  Ginevra  dear  ;  I  mean  this  for  your  good." 

"  No  doubt.  One's  friends  are  always  i>erisonal  and  disagree- 
able and  prosy  for  one's  good.  At  the  same  time  I  am  quite 
Md  enough  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"  4h,  Ginevra,  age  does  not  always  bring  wisdom.  And  Sir 
f  eter  is  jealous — poor  little  Sir  Peter !  It  is  unkind,  it  is  a 
shame  ;  you  bury  that  poor  little  man  alive  down  there,  and 
vou  dance,  and  walk,  and  fliit  with  Frankland.  I  say  again,  it 
is  a  shame." 

Lady  Dangerfield  leaned  back  in  the  barouche  and  laughed 
-  -laughed  absolutely  until  the  tears  started. 

"You  precious  Queenie — you  Diogenes  in  India  muslin  ani 
Limerick  lace  I  That  poor  little  Sir  Peter,  indeed!  and  Miss 
Hemcastle,  too  I  all  low  and  abject  things  find  favor  in  the  sigh* 
of  Lady  Cecil  Clive.  Sir  Peter  I  as  if  I  cared  what  that  odious 
little  wiien-faced,  buttei-fly-hunting  imbecile  thought !  Major 
Frankland  is  one  of  my  oldest,  one  of  my  dearest  friends,  with 
whom  I  shall  be  friendly  just  as  long  as  I  please,  in  spite  of  all 
the  husbands  alive.  And  to  think  of  a  sermon  from  you--fr<MB 
yeUf  the  most  notorious  flirt  in  London  — on  flirting  I  And  Solo^ 
mon  says  there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun  !  " 

Lady  Cecil  made  a  restless  movement,  and  under  the  white 
fringe  of  her  parasol  her  fair  face  flushed. 

"Gineyra,  1  am  sick — sick  of  having  myself  called  that 
And  I  am  not  a  flirt,  in  your  sen^^  of  the  rord.     I  don't  lea4 


tH 


Si/SS  RERNCASTUL. 


799 


I,  and  /6« 
Ginc\  ra," 
jbt  dcipk 

I  Clire  r 
about  ■•t 
saws  ar«  i 
iried?" 

If  ever  i 
narry,  thei 
id  love  mj 
•dly  as  my 


I  ever  be 
living  niai 
s,  bearded 
Don't  be 

id  disagree- 
I  am  quite 

And  Sir 

and,  it  is  a 

there,  and 

ly  again,  it 

nd  laughed 

muslin  and 
and  Miss 
|n  the  sigh* 
that  odioys 
It !  Major 
tends,  witb 
{spite  of  all 
/ou--froiB 
And  Solo 

the  white 

led  ^ksA 
Idon't  \eU 


\ 


fB  men  tocratify  my  own  petty  vanity,  to  swell  the  list  of  a  y*\c 
empty-headed,  empty-hearted  woman  of  the  world's  triumphft 
I  only  like  to  have  people  like  me  -admire  me,  if  you  will 
and  when  gentlemen  are  pleasant  and  dance  well,  and  tail 
well,  I  can't  be  frigid  and  formal,  and  talk  to  them  on  stilts 
It*!  they  who  are  stupid— muths  who  will  nish  into  the  caiidlv 
ind  linge  their  wings,  do  what  you  will.     T^e  warning  it  up 
'  dangerooi  ground,'  but  they  won't  be  war>.ed.     They  think 
the  quicksand  that  has  let  so  many  through  will  hold  them 
They  are  not  content  with  being  one's  friend  -they  must  be 
one's  loYcr.     And  then  when  one  is  sorry,  and  says  *  no,'  they 
rush  off  to  Spitsbergen,  or  S))anish  America,  or  Central  Africa, 
and  one  ia  called  heartless,  and  a  coquette,     it's  my  miifort 
une,  Ginevra,  not  my  fault." 

Again  Ginevra  laughed. 

**  My  dear,  what  eloquence  1  Why  weren't  you  lord,  insttad 
of  Lady  Cecil  Clive  ? — you  might  take  your  seat  in  the  Hovee, 
and  amaze  that  noble  and  prosy  body  by  your  brilliant  oratonr. 
t^ueenie,  answer  me  this — truly  now — were  you  ever  in  love  m 
your  life  ?  " 

Under  the  white  fringe  of  that  silken  screen,  her  parasol 
once  more  that  delicate  carnation  flushed  all  the  fair  *'  flowei 
face  "  of  Lm  Heine  Blanche.     But  she  laughed. 

**  That  is  what  lawyers  call  a  leading  question,  isn't  it,  Gin- 
evra ?  Who  falls  in  love  in  these  latter  days  ?  We  talk  ol 
settlements,  instead  of  turning  periods  to  our  lover's  eyes  ;  we 
go  to  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  if  an  eligible /ar//  asks  us 
to  accompany  him  there ;  but  as  for  getting  up  a  grande  pas 
liion — not  to  be  thought  of — bad  style  and  obsolete.  Soniebod) 
says  in  Coningsby,  *  passions  were  not  kuade  for  the  drawing 
room,'  and  I  agree  with  that  somebody.  I  don't  mean  to  be 
cynical,  Ginevra — I  only  state  v.Uin  facts,  and  pity  'tis  'ti* 
true." 

Lady  Chantilly's  morning  patty  was  doubly  pleasant  foi 
being  about  the  last  of  the  seasoii,  and  Major  Frankland  was 
ttiere.  He  was  a  tall,  military  swell,  with  heavy  blonde  mus- 
tache, sleepy,  cat-like  eyes,  adrawi,  and  an  eye  glass.  It  seemed 
the  most  natural  thing  imaginable  that  T.ndy  Dangerfield  should 
receive  her  Neapolitan  ice  from  his  hand,  and  that  he  should 
iean  over  her  chair  and  whisper  in  her  pretty  pink  ear  while  shr 
ate  it 

"We  alwa3r8  return  to  cur  first  loves,  don't  we.  Lady  Cecil  ? 
lauehed  the  HonorabV  Tharl^s  r>elai>v*r   of  ^he  F  O.,  can?! 


1  \ 

V    ' 

] 

\ 

1 

1 

! 

t 

i 

i' , 

■  1  ' 

m 


hi! 


m 


jk; 


'h     I 


'    '.'I 


»J0 


Hf/ss  .■/EFJ\r^\<.^ rr  k. 


Uf  Ice,  fnd  takini»  his  seal  by  the  sidtr  of  l-o"l  Ruyslan^f 
(UogMci,  "  aLi  faithful  as  the  neeuit  to  tiir  north  star  it  oM 
Frankbnd  to  the  ^d'^\  of  his  ymith.  Aproj)os  of  first  lovcv 
Lady  Cecil,"  looking  up  u.rtlessly,  "whom  do  you  suppose  ] 
met  It  licr  Majesty's  liist  night  ?  " 

The  Honorable  Charles,  one  of  the  '•  fastest,"  most  recklc:;i' 
yf/ang  fellows  about  town,  had  two  blue  eyes  as  soft  aiid  inna 
cent  as  the  eyes  of  a  niO!ith-nld  b.ilu;,  though  how  Mr.  Dcln 
«er  preserved  even  the  outward  st*inbl;in<:e  of  innocence  a» 
eight-and-twenty  it  would  be  ditiicult  to  b^y. 

lA<iy  Cecil  laughed.  She  liked  Charlie  for  this  good  resuK)rj. 
that  he  had  never  fallen  in  love  v.ith  her. 

"Not  being  a  clairvoyant  I  cannot  r.ny.  You  must  have  met 
»  great  many  people  I  should  think,  i  know  you  never  came 
ticar  our  box." 

"  No,"  Mr.  Delamer  said,  "  1  did  not  visit  your  box.  /ft 
wouldn't  come." 

"  Who  wouldn't  come  ?    Name  thia  contumacious  subject  ?  " 

"ODonnell." 

"  Who  ? "    suddenly  and    sharply  she    asked   the   question. 

Who?" 

•ODonnell  -Captain  Redriiond  O'Donnell,  of  the  Third 
Chasseurs  d'Afrique — L^  3eau  Chasseur^  as  they  call  him — 
and  the  best  fellow  the  sun  shines  on." 

She  was  always  pale  as  a  lily — La  Reine  Blanche — was  she 
really  paler  than  usual  now?  Ciiurlie  Delamer  wondered 
Was  it  only  the  shadow  of  the  ^?hite  paiasol,  or — 

There  was  a  pause — only  for  a  moment,  but  how  long  it 
seemed.  Coote  and  Tinne/s  band  discoursed  sweet  music, 
fountains  flashed,  birds  sang,  flowers  bUxjmed,  June  sunshine 
steeped  all  in  gold,  and  under  the  leafy  branches  I.iady  Dan 
gerfield  was  strolling  on  the  arm  of  Major  Krankland. 

Mr.  Delamer,  just  a  thought  startled,  spoke  again. 

"  You  know  O'Donnell,  don't  you  ?  In  Ireland,  was  it  ?  1 
think  he  said  so  last  night." 

"  Yes — 1  know — T  mean  1  knew  Captain  O'Donnell  slightly 
j»nce.  It  is  over  six  years -ago  though — 1  should  have  thought 
he  would  have  quite  forgotten  the  cirriunstance  by  tliis  time." 

"Men  who  have  been  so  fortv.'usis  as  lo  icnow  Im  ReifM 
Blanche  don't  forget  her  so  easilv  ?^'rce  you  honor  him  by 
your  remembrance,  it  is  hardly  stftcij^f  if  he  recollects  ^m<." 

"If  1  remember  hirat — Mx,  Del>inier,  Redmond  O'Donce-r 
Av<^  my  life  I " 


I 


MISS  H&Jf/i/CASrLE, 


aji 


RuyaUn^f 

star  ii  old 

first  lovci, 

1  suppote  i 

3St  rcckksr 
ft  aiid  inna 
r  Mr.  Dck 
inocence  a* 

;ood  reason. 

ist  have  met 
never  came 

LI  box.     Hi 

ii8  subject  ?  " 

fie   question. 

,f  the  Third 
call  him — 

\he — was  she 
wondered 

Ihow  long  it 
Iweet  music» 
ine  sunshine 
Lady  Dan 
Ind. 
In. 
I,  was  it  ?    \ 

Inell  slightly 
lave  thought 
Ithis  time." 

)nor  him  by 

CDonnii' 


'^ Saved  your  life?  Bv  Jove  !  the  lucky  fellow.  But  thoM 
hashing,  ItTig-sword,  saddle  bridle  Irishmen  are  always  luckj. 
And  the  fellow  said  his  ac(|uairiiance  was  but  trifling." 

Lady  Cecil  laughed — not  quite  so  ituisically  as  usual. 

«  Trifling  I  "  Perhaps  Captain  O'Donnell  rated  hit  Mrvk* 
it  the  valuation  of  the  thing  saved  I  And  he  is  in  England 
How  curious.  I  fancied  him — soldier  of  fortune—  free  lanoii 
that  he  is  I  for  life  out  there  in  Algiers." 

*'  He  ffoes  back  shortly.  He  is  a  born  flghter,  and  comes  ol 
i  soldierly  race.  The  O'Donnells  have  been  soldiers  of  fortune 
for  the  last  three  hundred  years,  and  asked  no  fairer  fate.  He 
leaves  England  soon,  places  his  sister  with  some  friends  in 
France,  and  goes  back." 

"  His  lister  I — the  Rose,  of  whom  he  used  to  speak— -oi 
trhom  he  was  so  fond  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  heard  him  call  her  Rose." 

"  You  heard  him  I  She  is  here  then  I  And  what  ii  she  like  F 
Redmond  CyDonneU's  sister  " — with  a  little  laugh — **  ought  to 
t)e  pretty." 

"  Weil,  she  is  not — at  least  not  now.  She  appears  to  be 
imder  a  cloud — sickness,  trouble,  something — didn't  talk  muck 
—looks  sad  and  somber,  and  is  a  brunette,  with  blue  eyes. 
She  is  just  from  New  Orleans — her  brother  went  for  her.  I 
called  there  immediately  before  I  came  here,  and  O'Donnell 
dines  with  me  this  evening.  What  a  prince  of  good  fellows  he 
was  out  yonder  in  Algiers,  and  the  devil's  own  to  fight.  He 
won  his  way  straight  up  from  the  ranks  with  his  sword.  And 
tie  saved  your  life  !     How  was  it,  I^dy  Cecil  ?" 

"  Much  too  long  a  story  for  a  morning  party,  with  the  ther- 
mometet  at  90  degrees.  There  is  Madame  de  Villafleur  beck- 
jning — ii  she  not  ?  " 

"  She  is.  Permit  me,  Lady  Cecil"  And  taking  Mr.  Dela- 
!ner's  proffered  arm,  liidy  Cecil  sauntered  over  to  Madame 
^a  ConUrsse  de  Villafleur. 

Twe  rose  light  of  the  summer  sunset  was  just  merging  into 
starry  dusk,  as  the  baronef  s  wife  and  earl's  daughter  drove  back 
to  Lowndes  Square.  Lady  Dangerfield  was  in  excellent  spirits— 
evidenilj^  Major  Fiankland  had  been  entertaining — and  talked 
incessantly  the  way  home  ;  but  Lady  Cecil  lay  back  among  the 
barouche  cushions,  paler,  graver,  more  silent  than  was  he- 
inront  She  had  been  very  much  admired,  as  usual ;  she  hv 
field  her  court  of  adorers,  also,  aa  isual ;  but  now  that  i<  .. 
?fv«r,  she  looked  wan,  spiritless,  and  bored. 


% 


I 


.«3 


m 


I  '  'ii 


M 


m 


■II 


f  I  ; 


•|        I 


i;i- '  I 


ii    I 


«*i 


MJSS  HERNCASTLE. 


^  KiA  ke  is  in  England  -in  London!"  sh»?  was  thinking 
**  He  wa,^  at  the  opera  last  night,  and  saw  me  !  And  it  mu 
not  worth  while  renewing  so  slight  an  ac(}uainlance  I  Tc 
ttiink — to  think  " — she  set  her  pearly  teeth  hard — "  to  think 
that  after  all  those  years  I  should  not  yet  have  outlived  tha' 
s<;ntimental  folly  of  so  long  ago  !  " 

How  stupid  you  arc,  Queenie  ! "  her  cousin  said,  pettishly 
as  they  neared  home.  '•  1  believe  you  have  not  spoken  twt 
irords  since  we  left  Kew  ;  and  now  that  1  have  asked  yoi 
twice  if  you  saw  Chandos  Howard  playing  lawn  billiards  witli 
Lady  Charlotte  Lansing,  you  only  answer,  'Yes  dear,  ver) 
pretty  indeed  I  *  It  is  to  be  hoped  you  will  recover  the  use  ol 
vour  tongue  and  your  senses  before  you  appear  at  Carlton 
Terrace  to-night." 

With  which  reproach  Lady  Dangerfield  got  out  and  went  up 
the  steps  cf  her  own  aristocratic  mansion. 

Soames,  the  footman,  flung  open  the  drawing-room  door,  but 
Lady  Cecil  did  not  enter.  She  toiled  wearily  up  to  her  own 
apartment,  threw  off  her  bonnet  and  scarf,  as  if  even  theii 
weight  oppressed  her,  and  ciossing  to  the  gold-and-ebony  writ- 
ing desk,  unlocked  it,  and  took  out  her  treasured  relics  once 
more. 

"  I  do  not  need  you  to  remind  nie  of  my  folly  any  longer," 
she  said,  looking  at  them.  *'  I  will  do  now  what  I  should  have 
done  this  morning." 

The  faintly  sighing  evening  wind  fluttered  the  lace  curtains 
of  the  open  window.  She  walked  to  it,  ^-li'-ed  for  a  moment  at 
the  pictured  face,  set  her  lips,  and  del.berately  tore  up  into 
oainutest  fragments  the  note  and  the  picture.  The  summer 
breeze  whirled  them  off  in  an  instant,  the  spray  of  clematiS) 
and  the  dark  ciu-1  of  hair  followed,  and  then  Lady  Cecil  rang 
for  her  maid,  and  dressed  for  the  evening. 

"They  say — those  wiseacres  who  make  books — that  evcrj 
life  has  its  romance.  T  suppose  they  aie  right,  and  so  forevfr 
has  ended  mine.  Not  the  white  satin  to-night,  Desir^e — tb« 
blue  silk  and  turquoise  ornaments,  I  think  I  " 

At  half-past  eleven  that  night — and  when  had  the  phenome 
non  occurred  before  ? — the  Earl  of  Ruyslan^'  returned  to  ta& 
niece's  house.  He  had  writtea  and  dispatched  his  lecter,  and 
though  I.»ady  Cecil  had  sent  no  message  to  Sir  Arthur  Tre- 
genna,  the  letter  contained  a  most  encouraging  and  flattering 
ofie.  He  had  dined  at  his  club,  he  h;id  indulged  in  chickec 
\zxAx\  for  an  hour,  and  at  half  past  eleven  stood  in  the  moon 


/tf/SS   HERNCASTL P.. 


m 


thinkiDg 
ind  it  w*» 
iCe  I  Tc 
"to  think 
tlived  th*' 

,  pettishly 
)oken  twt 
asked  yoi 
liards  witli 
dear,  ver> 
the  use  ol 
at  Carlton 

;id  went  up 

n  door,  but 
to  her  own 
even  theii 
ebony  writ- 
relics  once 

ny  longer," 
hould  have 

ice  curiaina 
moment  at 
re  up  into 
he  summer 
>f  cleniatift, 
Cecil  rang 

-that  ever) 
so  forevr 
esirte — tbt 

_  phenome 

^rned  to  his 

lecter,  and 

krthur  Tre 

|id  ftattering 

in  chickec 

the  moon 


Aght  at  l-ady  Dangerfield's  door.     He  had  been  up,  aa 
know,  until  half-past  five  the  |>rcv.cduig  day,  and  on  the  wis 
try  side  of  fifty  late  hours  and  dissipation  tell. 

"I  think  I  will  give  u])  T-ondon  lifv.'."  he  said  to  himself. 
"  and  devote  myself  to  growing  old  gracefully.  Let  me  ao> 
complish  this  mairiage,  pay  my  debts,  and  with  replenisho^ 
cofTers,  ftnd  a  rejuvenated  reputation,  betake  myself  to  pleaaaal 
Continental  Spas  and  Badens,  and  live  happy  forever  aftct. 
Ah,  Soames  I  my  lady  and  Lady  ('ecil  departed  yet  'or  tha 
ball?" 

"  Not  yet,  me  lord — dressing,  me  lord — carriage  has  jus! 
been  ordered  round,  me  lord." 

Lord  Ruysland  ascended  to  the  silent  magnificence  of  the 
long  drawing- rocnis.  There  were  three,  opening  one  into  th« 
other,  in  a  brilliant  vista  ot  velvet  carpet,  lace  draperies,  or 
molu,  and  satin  upholstery.  They  were  deserted  now,  and  tlv 
gas  unlit.  The  range  of  windows,  seven  in  number,  stood  wid« 
open,  and  the  silvery  light  of  the  resplendent  June  moot 
poured  in. 

*'  Silence  and  solitude,"  muttered  the  earl ;  '*'-*»-'  the  deuce 
are  they  all  in  the  dark  ?  Aw !  very  pretty,  indeeu,  ^illiant 
moon,  and  a  cloudless  sky — one  might  fancy  it  Venic-  mstead 
ot  smoky,  foggy,  dingy  London." 

He  paused.  The  rootns  were  not  deserted,  it  would  seem, 
afver  all.  Out  of  the  lace  and  amber  curtains  of  the  seventh 
and  farthtst  window,  a  figure  emerged  and  ai)proached  him. 
The  earl's  eyes  turned  from  that  crystal  moon,  and  fixed  exi  tct 
antlv  on  the  advancing  figure — *he  figure  of  a  woman.  Who 
was  it  ?  Not  a  servant,  surely,  with  that  slow  and  stately  tread, 
that  assured  air.  Not  little  Lady  Dangerfidd — this  figure  wa» 
tall;  not  Lad^'  Cecil  either — even  she  must  have  stooil  a  full 
head  shorter  than  this  woman.     Who  was  it  ? 

The  long  drawing-room  lay  in  alternate  strips  of  darknen 
tad  light.  The  shadows  hid  her  for  a  moment,  she  emerged 
Into  the  moonrays  again,  and  again  disappeared.  Who  was  she 
— this  tall,  magnificently  proportioned  woman,  in  dark  sweep- 
big  drapery,  with  that  majestic  stateliness  of  mien  and  walk  ? 

She  had  not  seen  him.  For  the  fourth  time  she  came  into 
the  light,  then  the  darkness  took  her — a  fifth  tune  she  ap|)eared, 
A  Kixth,  and  then  she  beheld  the  earl  standing  curious,  expect- 
ant, watching. 

She  stopped  short — the  moonlight  fell  full  upon  her  face — pal«* 
and  calm.     And  th?  Earl  of  Ruyslaml,  who  for  the  last  'diiicj 


II 


B^ 


^/.SS   HF.RN'CAS  i  LH. 


ii  i  -t 


i\'': 


ii ' 


jrearv  h«d  oatlive'd  every  phase  of  human  emotics  atter^ 
a  low,  worldless  cry,  and  fell  slowly  back.  The  toand  ck 
that  startled  cry,  low  as  it  was,  reached  her  ear.  The  tromafi 
in  the  moonlight  came  a  step  nearer  and  spoke : 

'*  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  should  no*  have  intruded,  hot  I 
thooght  these  rooms  were  quite  deserted.^' 

What  a  sweet  voice  it  was !  Its  tones  lingered  pleaiantfi 
i^  the  ear,  like  the  low  notes  of  a  flute. 

Her  words  broke  the  spell  that  held  the  earl.  His  eyes  had 
been  fixed  with  a  sort  of  fascination  on  her  face — a  look  of 
utartled  wonder  on  his  own.  And  Raoul,  Earl  of  Ruysland^ 
was  not  easily  startled.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and  stood 
aside  to  let  her  pass. 

"  It  is  I  who  should  apologize,"  he  said,  with  the  courtly  defer- 
ence to  all  women  that  long  habit  had  made  second  nature, 
**  for  startling  you  in  so  absurd  a  manner.  I  labored  under  the 
same  delusion  as  yourself.  I  fancied  these  rooms  forsaken. 
Soames !  lights  immediately ! " 

The  tall  footman  set  the  chandeliers  ablaze,  and  closed  the 
curtains.     But  the  dark-draped  lady  had  vanished. 

**  Who  was  that  ?  "  the  earl  asked  carelessly ;  "  a  visitor  I " 

"  The  gov'ness,  me  lord.  Me  lady's  new  nuss'ry  goVness. 
Came  two  hoars  ago,  me  lord,  which  her  name  it's  Miss  'Ero- 
cattle." 

"  Is  the  carriage  waiting,  Soames  ?  "  inquired  my  lady,  sail- 
ing in  a  sea  of  green  silk  and  tulle  illusion,  illuminated  with 
emeralds.  "You,  Uncle  Jlaoulj  and  at  half-past  seven! 
What  miracle  will  happen  next  ?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you 
are  coming  with  Cecil  and  me  to  the  Duchess  of  Stratheam's 
^&ir€e  musualet" 

*'  I  don't,  indeed.  Nothing  is  further  from  my  thoughts  than 
g^ries  musicaUs.  Ginevra,  who  is  that  new  governess  of  yourt  ? 
She  is  your  governess,  Soames  tells  me." 

"  What !     Miss  Hemcastle  1  where  did  you  see  her  ?" 

*'  I  saw  her  just  now.  as  I  came  in.  She's  a  very  dif tiiv 
gaished-looking  person,  isn't  she  ?  Nursery  governesses  don't 
usually  look  lOce  tragedy  queens,  do  they  ?  She  has  a  veiy 
remarkable  face." 

**  Has  she  ?  You  are  as  enthusiastic  as  Queenie.  She  saw 
her  at  noon,  and  raved  about  her  for  half  an  hour.  I  must  be 
f^sry  blind  or  stupid — I  confess  I  ran  only  see  a  preposterosslji 
lall  young  woman,  with  a  pale,  solemn  face." 

"  Enthusiastic,  am  I ?"  Lord  Ruysland  repeated    "  I 


srK  4 If  T mm  trfcfj/^^a 


tf.* 


\  tound  (» 
rhe 


iided,  bat  1 
pleauBtli 

[is  eyea  had 

— a  look  of 

f  Ruysland, 

and  stood 

5urtly  defer - 
ond  nature, 
d  under  the 
as  forsaken. 

d  closed  the 

L  visitor ! " 
'ry  goVncss. 
s  Miss  'Etd. 

ly  lady,  sail- 
linated  with 
)ast  seven! 
to  say  you 
Stratheam's 

loughts  than 
|ss  of  yours  ? 

ler?" 

very  diitiiv 
lesses  don't 
has  a  very 

She  saw 

I  must  be 

jposteroasly 


tware  Aat  I  was ;  but  1  once  kne^^  iiiiuilici  iacc  «rery  Uke  R— 
wandcrfiill)-  lite  it  And  I  give  you  ni}  word  of  h{)nor  tliit  w 
I  came  ujwn  Mis* — ah.  to  be  sure — ITemcastle,  standin{|[  tlMrr 
b  the  moonlight,  I  thought  1  saw  a  ghosL" 


CHAPTER  IIL 


SUt  ARTHUR  TRBGKNNA. 


II 


I 


AR  away,  along  the  north  coast  of  Cornwall,  not  fan 
from  "  the  thundering  shores  of  Bude  and  Boss,"  there 
stands  a  huge  pile  of  masonry,  looking  old  enough  and 
hoary  enough  to  have  been  built  by  the  hands  of  the 
Druids,  and  called  Tregenna  Towers.  Its  lofty  battleniented 
circular  towers  pierced  the  blue  air  at  a  dizzy  height — its  beacon 
a  land-mark  fifteen  miles  up  and  down  the  coast.  From  its 
sea  wall  you  look  sheer  down  three  hundred  feet  of  black  and 
slaty  cliffs  into  the  white  surging  sea  below.  And  to  the  right, 
three  miles  off,  lying  in  a  warm,  green  hollow,  is  Tregenna  vil 
lage,  with  its  ivied  church  and  vicar.i^c,  its  clusters  of  stone  cot- 
tages, with  roses,  myrtle,  and  fuciisiur  blooming  out-of-doors  the 
year  round.  Gray,  lonely,  weather-beaten  Tregenna  Towers 
stands,  with  the  steady  sea  gale  howling  around  it,  miles  oi! 
foam-white  sea,  and  a  low,  dusk,  fast-drifting  sky  over  all. 
Risht  and  left  as  far  as  you  can  see,  and  farther,  spread  moors, 
and  mines,  and  fisheries,  all  ckuning  for  their  lord  Sir  Arthui 
Tregenna,  twelfth  baronet  of  his  line,  and  one  of  the  very 
wealthiest  in  the  United  Kingdom.  You  may  wander  on  foi 
miles  over  those  purple  ridgy  moors.  You  may  ask  the  browfc 
fishermen  or  the  black  miners  wherever  you  meet  them,  and 
the  answer  will  still  be  the  same — Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  is  lord 
ofalL 

Only  once  in  seven  long  years  has  the  master's  footstep 
rung  through  the  gray,  lonesome  rooms  of  Tregenna.  He  is  a 
wanderer  over  the  earth  from  the  North  Sea  to  Oceanica. 
Since  his  father's  death,  ten  years  before,  when  he  was  thiee- 
and-twenty,  Tregenna  has  seen  but  little  of  him — England, 
either,  for  that  matter.  And  still  wiLh  loving  fidelit)  the  old 
ierv;ints,  the  old  tenants  and  retainers  lock  forward  to  the  day 


1i' 


!i   i«! 


mm     I 


I '  'ii  I 


I'. 


ll.njIlM 


216 


.f//?    ARTHUf^    TPF.GEN'Nd. 


irhc.fl  Sir  Arthur  will  bring  a  bride  to  o](i  Tregem  a,  and  rMM«« 
(t8  ancient  splendors.  F^or  they  hjve  him  very  dearly.  Th« 
gentlest  of  masters,  the  most  Christian  of  gentleinen,  the  kind- 
est of  landlords — that,  is  what  tiiey  \vill  tell  you  of  him.  Ht 
might  have  been  one  of  good  King  Arthur's  knights,  so  staic^ecs 
1  record,  so  high  a  code  of  honor,  so  iinbleniishcd  a  'ife  laj 
!>ehind  him.  He  had  loved  his  father  with  \  rare  ai  \  gtes? 
live,  and  upon  that  father's  death  had  gone  abroad,  and  beek 
in  exile  and  a  ivanderer  since. 

On  the  second  day  of  July,  among  the  passengers  who  ar 
rived  at  the  London  bridge  terminus,  straight  from  Tasmania, 
iras  Arthur  Tregenna,  His  luggage  was  scant,  there  was  noth- 
ing about  him  to  betoken  the  owner  of  fabulous  wealth,  and  he 
drove  at  once  to  a  certain  old-fashioned  West  End  hotel,  that 
his  family  had  used  for  generations.  He  dined,  dressed,  and 
drove  to  I^wndes  Square.  But  the  shutters  of  that  aristocratic 
mansion  were  closed,  the  furniture  gone  into  Holland  shrouds, 
and  an  oid  woman  in  pattens,  who  opened  the  door,  informed 
him  that  the  family  had  left  only  that  very  morning,  for  Sussex. 

"  Then  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  follow,"  Sir  Arthut 
thought.  "  It  is  due  to  hir — to  my  promise.  I  shall  go  down 
to-morrow." 

He  went  back  to  his  hotel  in  the  silvery  summer  dusk.  Lon- 
don seemed  new  to  him  after  years  of  wandering  through  Can- 
adian wildernesses,  Mexican  tropics,  Indian  jungles  and  Amer- 
ican prauies ;  its  roaring,  surging,  ceaseless  Babel  stunned  him. 
He  sat  in  an  arm-chair  near  the  open  window,  the  last  pink  flush 
of  the  dying  day  upon  him.  and  a  thoughtful  gravity  habitual  to 
it  lying  upon  his  face. 

He  was  a  very  tall,  very  fair  man,  this  Cornish  baronet,  witii 
deep  set  gray  eyes,  close-cropped  blonde  hair,  blonde  whiskers, 
and — not  handsome.  The  face  of  a  sunburnt  student,  perhaps, 
never  that  of  a  handsome  man — a  face  that  could  set  itself  stem 
AS  death,  a  face  at  once  proud  and  grave,  but  a  face  that  men 
might  trust  and  woman  love,  for  all  that.  A  face  that  lit  into 
wonderful  warmth  and  geniality  when  he  smiled,  but  Sir  Arthur 
Tregenna  did  not  smile  often. 

The  thoughtful  gravity  of  his  face  was  a  shade  graver  even 
than  usual  this  soft  summer  evening  as  he  sat  here  alone.  Hii 
eyes  looked  wearily  over  the  surging  sea  of  strange  faces,  with 
something  of  a  tired,  lonely  light. 

"  Nine-and-twenty;"  he  was  thinking,  **and  I  feel  as  aloae  in 
England  this  first  day  of  my  return  as  though  I  had  never  let 


SIM   ARrtzUti     VRF.GENNA 


rly.  Th« 
the  kind- 

l^iiin.     Ht 

0  staiu^aii 
a  'ife  Ir-] 

ai  'i  gf«»? 
aiid  beeb 

rs  who  ar 
Tasmania, 
was  noth- 
th,  and  he 
hotel,  that 
essed,  and 
iristocratic 
id  shrouds, 
■,  informed 
for  Sussex. 
Sir  Arthur 
ill  go  down 

usk.  Lon- 
ough  Can- 
and  Amer- 

nned  him. 

pink  flush 
habitual  to 

ronet,  with 
|e  whiskers, 
it,  perhaps, 

itself  stem 
le  that  men 
Ihat  lit  inte 

Sir  Aithur 

[raver  even 
[lone.  Hii 
I  faces,  with 

las  alone  in 
never  Ml 


»J7 


(oat  in  it  before.  It  is  tintc*  I  gave  up  this  ^irdouin  sort  of  lifi^ 
this  wandering,  gipsy ish,  vagabond  kind  of  existence  and  fmng»^ 
as  our  lively  French  neighbors  phrase  it,  and  settle  down  ttf 
civilized  life.  And  yet — 1  don't  know — the  normal  life  suitt 
me  after  all,  and  1  may  be  glad  to  return  to  it.  If  I  find  bsi 
AS  I  half  expect  to  find  her,  I  most  assuredly  shall.  A  Ix>nd(>9 
coquette  is  no  wife  for  a  plain,  practical  man  like  me.  And  \ 
arant  a  wife,  not  a  butterfly. 


M  •  Wbo  would  Uv«  with  a  doD.  though  its  hdr  ihould  h* 
Aad  its  pettiooats  trimmed  In  the  faihkn  T ' 


'*  A  London  belle  of  three  years'  standing  and  a  flirt — no  sncfa 
iroman  as  that  is  hardly  likely  to  be  a  wife  of  mine  or  mistresi 
of  Tregenna.  But  it  was  my  father's  wish  that  at  least  I  should 
marry  no  one  before  seeing  her,  and  every  wish  of  his  is  sacred. 
It  is  surprising,  though,  that  she  remains  single  still — with  all 
that  beauty  and  grace  and  fatal  witchery  they  say  she  possesses. 
Many  men  have  offered,  but  she  has  refused  all — men  witk 
rank  and  power  and  wealth." 

For  Sir  Arthur  had  returned  home  on  most  matrimoniai 
thoughts  intent.  His  late  father  and  the  present  Earl  of  Ruys- 
land,  dissimilar  in  many  things,  were  yet  close  friends  and 
comrades.  The  plain  Cornish  baronet  had  been  dazzled  by  the 
more  brilliant  peer,  and  when  that  peer  fell  into  poverty,  his 
purse  and  sympathy  were  ever  at  his  service.  And  one  having 
an  only  son,  the  other  an  only  daughter,  what  more  natural 
than  th:::t  they  should  sink  their  bond  of  friendship  in  the  closer 
bond  of  relationship. 

Old  Sir  John  had  loved  and  admired  little  Lady  Cecil,  next 
to  his  boy,  above  all  earthly  things.  Her  fair  face  and  golden 
ringlets,  and  brown,  luminous  eyes  made  sunshine  often  in  th« 
dim,  dusky-storied  old  rooms  of  Tregenna,  her  clear  girl's  tones, 
the  sweetest  music.  She  had  not  met  young  Arthur  on  the.<Mi 
Titits,  he  had  been  up  at  Oxford.  C-  sually,  however,  once  or 
^ce  they  had  come  together.  But  somehow  the  friendship  ok 
the  fathers  was  not  reproduced  in  the  children.  Little  I^y 
Cecil  in  her  white  frocks  and  blue  sashes,  her  lowing  curls,  and 
dancing  eyes,  was  bat  a  frivolous,  tiresome  child  in  the  pedantic 
^eof  the  tall,  Greek-speaking,  Latin-loving  under-grad  ;  while 
diis  uphfted,  severe,  silent  young  Oxonian  was  an  object  of  awe 
and  terror  to  the  earl's  daughter.  But  Sir  John  died,  and  on  V\t 
death-bed  he  had  asked  his  son,  stricken  with  grieC  to  nis^e,  if 


^fj 


v/if     */tTHUIi    ntHGRlfNA 


'li 


!'i'l 


.11 


lie  coold  wia  her  cooiient,  I^y  Cecil  Clive  the  future  luiatren 
of  Tregenna. 

"  You  will  love  her,"  the  old  man  had  said  ;  "who  could  help 
It  ?  She  if  as  beautiful  as  the  day,  and  as  good  as  she  is  bean- 
dftil  No  one  lives  whom  I  would  as  soon  se<  your  wife  as  my 
old  friend's  child" 

Arthur  had  given  his  promise,  and  when  did  a  Tresenna  «vet 
Weak  his  word  to  a  friend  or  foe  ?  He  went  abroad  then,  and 
ior  three  years  remained  abroad.  I^y  Cecil  was  in  her  nine- 
teenth year  upon  his  return,  and  it  was  her  first  season,  death  in 
the  family  having  kept  her  back.  They  met  in  that  gay,  graci 
ous,  brilliant,  Mayfair  world,  and  he  began  to  realize  Uiat  Lady 
Cecil  Clive  was  by  no  means  the  woman  of  women  he  wished 
to  take  to  wife. 

She  was  lovely — no  doubt  of  that — sweet,  gentle,  pure,  an<^ 
proud.  But  she  loved  admiration — many  men  sought  hei, 
pressed  forward  eagerly  in  the  chase,  and  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna 
stood  in  the  background  and  saw  her  smile  upon  them  all ;  very 
few  of  those  smiles  were  for  him.  She  had  heard  nothing  of 
that  death-bed  compact,  and  her  father  chanced  to  be  absent 
from  BJigland  that  first  season.  Before  it  had  ended  Sir  Arthur 
had  manned  his  yacht,  and  set  out  for  the  Mediterranean. 

And  now  after  three  years  he  was  back,  and  on  the  same 
errand.  One  last  effort  he  would  make  to  obey  his  father ;  if 
he  found  her  the  sort  of  woman  he  half  suspected,  then  sh(! 
Aould  never  be  wife  of  his. 

Two  men  were  talking  near  him  as  he  sat  lost  in  thought. 
Their  conversation  fell  on  his  ear — they  did  not  seem  to  heed 
him — and  lost  in  his  own  reverie  he  did  not  comprehend  a 
vord. 

"  Lefk  this  morning,  did  you  say,  Wyatt  ?  "  one  of  them  was 
•ajring.  **  Somewhere  down  in  Sussex,  is  it  ?  Then  I  shall  not 
ffo  to  the  Clarges  Street  reception  to-nieht.  London  is  a  howl- 
nig  wilderness  without  her.  The  sun  shines  on  noching  half  so 
knrely  as  La  Reine  Blanche" 

*'  S6>  poor  Buccleth  used  to  say  until  she  refused,  and  sent 
him  headlong  to  perdition.  It's  a  curious  fact  in  nattu^  phi- 
losophy that  all  the  men  who  ^ose  their  heads  for  the  White 
Queen  go  straight  to  the  bad  after  it.  Poor  she  is  as  a  church 
mouse,  and  yet  I  believe  she  has  rejected  more  proposals  this 
•es^jn  than  the  Duke  of  Belviour*s  daughter  herself,  with  her 
beauty,  hei  blood,  and  her  splendid  dot.  What  do  you  suppoM 
ite  it  waiting  for — a  ducal  coronet  ^" 


5//?   APTHVR    TREaENNA, 


aif 


''Old  Ruys  is  an  inscrutable  card,  and  there's  some  one  Ui 
ilie  background,  depend  upon  it.  Wasn't  there  a  whisper  at 
Pratfsof  an  enormously  rich  Comishman  for  whom  the  old  bird 
if  reserving  her.  She  is  charming — La  Reine  Blatuht — aad 
Bodiing  under  thirty  thousand  a  year  stands  any  cliance  thart. 

" '  PrmlM  at  we  wuky  when  the  ule  U  doaa, 
Sh*  la  but  ■  Buud  to  be  wooed  and  wi*.' " 

"  I  envy  the  Comishman,  whoever  he  is." 

*'Hii  name  is  Tregenna — Sir  Arthur  Tregenna — worth  no 
end  in  tin  mines  and  fisheries  and  that,  but  a  deuce  of  a  prig, 
■o  I  am  told." 

The  next  instant  the  two  youn^  dandies  were  startled  by  the 
tall,  sunburned,  silent  gentleman  m  the  arm-chair  rising  up  and 
being  them. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  in  haughty  surprise ;  *•  1  am 
that  deuce  of  a  prig — Sir  Arthur  Tregenna.  Had  I  known  I  was 
the  subject  of  your  conversation  I  would  have  interrupted  you 
sooner.  And  you  scarcely  honor  the  name  of  the  lady  you 
praise  by  making  it  the  public  property  of  a  coffee-room." 

With  which,  and  a  frown  of  haughty  anger,  the  tail,  tanned 
vAnHeman  stalked  away,  leaving  the  two  friends  aghast. 

"  Gad  !  "  Wyatt  said ;  "  and  that's  Tregenna — like  a  rencon- 
tre on  the  stage  where  the  hero,  supposed  to  be  at  the  antipodes, 
turns  up  at  a  minute's  notice.  I  took  him  to  be  a  sailor,  mei 
chant  captain,  or  something  of  that  sort.  Has  his  arrival,  I 
wonder,  anything  to  do  with  the  little  Clive's  flight  from  Lon- 
don?" 

More  and  more  dissatisfied,  the  young  baronet  left  the  room 
and  the  hotel. 

And  this  was  the  girl  he  had  come  home  to  marry — a  flin 
who  drew  men  only  to  refuse  them  and  send  them  to  perdition, 
Rs  that  perfumed  puppy  in  the  coffee-room  phrased  it — a  tm 
Mid  Iktal  Circe,  bom  to  work  evil  and  destmction  on  earth. 

**  I  shall  go  down  and  see  for  myself,"  he  thought,  sternly ; 
•*  uurt  at  least  my  promise  binds  me  to,  but  no  hardened  co- 
quette shall  ever  be  wife  of  mine.  If  I  find  Lady  Cecil  Clive 
what  I  know  I  shall,  I  will  leave  England  again  within  a  we*k, 
and  try  once  more  the  plains  of  Texas,  the  buffalo,  and  tha 
Indians.  I  will  take  some  dusky  woman  ;  she  shall  rear  my 
savage  brood.  Well,  not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  perhaps — I'm 
not  in  love,  and  the  fellow  in  Locksley  Hall  was — but  I'll  go  tii 
my  grave  alone,  and  Tragenna  shall  pass  to  the  Dcxt-ofkinf 


!    JJi 


i     iV    !  ' 


:■  I 


M6 


At  SCAffSUroOh 


Xfoner  tKan  marry  a  woman  of  the  world  who  is  a  wtmuiB  ol 
the  world  and  no  more,  liuw  lightly  these  flippant  fops  took 
her  name  on  their  lips.  And  my  \k)Oi  father  believed  her  la 
ingel  because  she  haid  an  angel  face.  If  s  ei»mi^  to  aaftkc  t 
lAB  flbnwear  the  sex." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


AT     SCAKSWOOD. 


1/^ 


I  II 


•\1>.  *ii  ih',  afternoon  of  that  sunuy  June  day,  at  tne 
very  hcui  \deed  in  which  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  sat 
listening  lo  Wyatt  and  his  comf^nion  in  the  coffee- 
room  of  his  hotel,  Lady  DangerfieM,  her  micle,  cousin, 
governess,  servants,  etc.-  -an  imposing  pro».<;ssion — arrived  froii. 
London  at  Scarswood  Park. 

Scarswood!  With  the  ro.e  ^lush  of  the  setting  sun  upon  iu 
wiih  the  glades,  the  lawns,  the  jhriibberies  steeped  in  gold,  witn 
Ae  stone  urns  on  the  stone  terracv,s  turned  to  burnished  silver, 
the  scarlet  roses  like  sparks  of  fire,  every  leaf  of  the  copper 
Heches  blood-red  rubies,  the  windi.v>s  glancing  through  the 
trees  like  sheets  of  burnished  gold,  Sca»  swood  Park  and  the 
turreted  old  mansion  came  upon  them — a  nrarvelously  fair  pict- 
are.  Trackless  depths  of  fern  waved  away  and  away,  the  great 
fish-pond  spread  out  like  a  silver  mirror.  Landscape  gardeners 
ander  my  lady's  orders  had  done  their  work  :  the  parterres^ 
the  tropic  bloom,  the  wealth  of  myrtle  and  mignonette,  of  rosei 
iad  geraniums,  were  like  unto  some  modern  garden  of  Edea 

"  How  lovely — what  a  magnificent  old  place  I ''  Lady  Cocil 
fxclaimed  ;  "  and  you  call  it  dull  as  death,  as  dismal  as  a  tomb, 
4xinevra ! " 

It  was  her  first  visit  to  the  ancestral  home  of  her  cousin*! 
rich  husband,  and  in  her  heart  of  hearts  the  belle  of  Ix>ndon 
{learly  loved  the  country. 

Lady  Bangerfield  glanced  around  her  with  a  little  sour  air. 

"  So  it  was,  so  it  is,  so  it  will  be — if  1  let  it  Why  can't  th« 
London  season  last  forever  ?  I  like  rural  life  and  rustic  scenct 
In  picture*- in  real  lifs  give  me  B^l^raviy,  year  is   year  oat" 


AT  SCAJfSH^OOn. 


Ml 


>r 


It  the 

lenet 

n 


"  And  balls,  ttoirecs,  operas,  drawing-rooms,  and  drives — th« 
c^  weary,  treadmill,  tiresome,  endless  round.  You  are  faar- 
ftilly  and  uronderfuUy  vital,  (iinevra,  and  stand  the  wear  and 
tear  well ;  but  if  these  little  breathing  spaces  did  not  come  evea 
ytm  would  have  to  go  under  speedily.  For  myself  six  weeki  o^ 
l^ndon,  if  you  will,  four  of  Paris,  and  the  rest  of  the  year  ii 
jist  such  a  dear  old  country  house  as  this,  half  a  dozen  nice 
(/eople  to  live  with,  one's  country  neighbors  to  visit,  and  Mrs. 
Giundy  forgotten." 

*'  Well,  my  dear,  you  shaVl  have  all  that  and  more,  when  ytjm 
are  Lady  Tre^enna.  Tregenna  Towers  is  as  old  again  as  Scar» 
wood,  and  twice  as  truly  rural.  Is  that  luy  lord  and  master  \ 
»ee  on  the  portico  steps  ?  Really  he  shrivels  up  and  grows 
smaller  with  every  passing  day  !  And  here  come  Pearl  and 
Pansy  flying  down  the  steps  like  little  wild  Indians.  Miss 
Hemcastle,  what  do  you  think  of  your  future  home  and  your 
future  pupils  ?  " 

The  governess,  in  charge  of  my  lady's  fat  King  Charles,  had 
taken  the  third  seat  in  the  carriage.  The  earl  had  not  driven 
with  the  ladies  from  the  station.  Miss  Hcrncastle's  large  calm 
eyes  had  been  taking  in  everything,  and  Miss  Hemcastle' s 
calm  tones  replied : 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  place,  my  lady.  But  I  have  seen  Scarswood 
befora." 

"  Indeed !  This  is  not  your  fu-st  visit  to  Sussex,  then  ?  Was 
it  in  Sir  Peter's  time,  or  before  ?  Pansy — Pearl  I  Little 
wretches,  do  you  want  to  run  under  the  carriage  wheels  ? 
Stand  back  and  be  still !  Sir  Peter,  how  stupid  of  you  to  lei 
those  children  run  wild  in  this  boisterous  manner  ! " 

It  was  my  lady's  first  greeting  to  her  husband  as  she  wa« 
assisted  out.  Sir  Peter  had  come  down  the  steps  to  meet  her : 
•he  gave  him  two  gloved  hngers,  then  gave  the  twins  first  u 
shake,  ichen  a  kiss.  The  little  nine-year-olds  were  miniaturef 
of  hcrself^the  same  round,  black  eyes,  the  same  crisp,  biac'i 
bair,  the  same  petite  features  and  proportions,  and  so  mucii, 
also,  like  one  another  that  it  seemed  impossible  at  first  glance 
to  tell  them  apart. 

"  You  disobedient  little  midgets  ! "  their  mamma  said,  "  hoi* 
often  have  I  told  you  not  to  msh  to  meet  any  one  in  that  hoy 
denish  way  ?     What  is  your  maid  thinking  o(  to  let  you  ?  " 

"'Twasn'tSusan's  fault,  mamma,"  raped  tiie  black-eyed  twin 
"She  told  me  to  stay  in  tlie  nursery,  bui  uxf.  and  Pansy  saw  t'ea 
carria^se,  and  you  and  Auntie  Cecit  from  the  window,  and  we 
11 


'i  A 


94s 


AT  SCARSIVOOO. 


I 


i'-ni 


■      ! 


!  I 


■■!'! 


li'l! 


couliln't  •;U>.     VVe'ie  awful  glad  yuu've  corns,  AiiAtfe.      Ov 
dolls  haven't  got  a  summer  dress  to  their  backs." 

Lady  Cecil  laughed  and  kissed  the  twins.  Children  alwayi 
fell  in  love  with  her  at  sight. 

**Not  a  summer  dress  to  their  backs,  Pearl,  and  the  leaioc 
to  far  advanced  I  A  harrowing  case,  which  must  be  attended 
1:0  immediately.  Sir  Peter,  will  you  indorse  Pearl's  welcome 
and  say  you  are  glad  to  see  me  likewise  ?  " 

She  gave  him  her  hand  with  a  smile  that  thawed  even  th« 
frozen  nature  of  Sir  Ptter  Dangerfield.  To  be  glad  to  see  an] 
one  who  was  a  visitor  and  daily  expense  was  not  in  his  nature 
but  as  such  things  had  to  be  under  the  rule  of  his  very  mud 
better  half,  he  shook  Lady  Cecil's  delicate  gray  glove,  and  sai( 
something  about  his  pleasure  in  welcoming  her  to  Scarswood. 

*'  And  Scarswood  is  a  home  to  be  proud  of,"  Lady  Cecil  sail 
— "  my  idea  of  an  earthly  paradise,  as  1  told  Ginevra  comini 
up.  Papa  staged  behind,  Sir  Peter,  talking  to  a  friend — he  wif 
be  here  for  dinner.  Pernut  me — Miss  iTerncastle,  Sir  Petef 
Ah,  Pansy !  ah.  Pearl  I  No  more  dolls  and  dress-making; 
Here  is  a  lady  come  all  the  way  from  London  to  train  you  U 
the  way  you  should  go." 

The  twins  hxed  four  big,  bright,  black  eyes  full  on  the  ne^ 

Sovemess.  Sir  Petei  bowed — the  governess  was  at  some  littli 
istance — then  stopned,  put  up  his  eye-glass,  and  stared  again 
The  governess  came  a  step  nearer,  hxed  her  eyes  upon  his  face 
made  a  graceful  obeisance,  and  turned  to  her  pupils. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  kiss,  my  dear  ?  You  are  Pansy,  are  yoi 
not  ? — you  Pearl  ?  Ah !  I  tho<ight  I  could  tell  the  difference 
though  you  are  so  much  £.<ike." 

'*  I  trust.  Sir  Peter,  you  saw  that  t^**  upholsterers  fitted  up  thi 
drawing  and  dining-rooms  according  to  my  orders  ?  Have  th. 
pictures  ar — "  She  stopped  short.  "  Good  gracious,  Queenie 
what  is  that  man  staring  at  ?     Sir  Peter  ! " 

He  never  heard  her.  His  eyes  behind  his  double  eye-gla& 
were  fixed  upon  Miss  Hemcastle  :  his  face  had  turned  to  a  dxi 
vellow  pallor  from  brow  to  chin.  His  wife  stood  and  stared  tf 
him  aghast. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  look  at  him,  Queenie  I  Is  he  going  t< 
have  a  fit,  or — Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  what  on  earth  are  yoi 
4gmpe  at  ?  " 

She  caught  his  arm  impatiently,  and  gave  t^m  no  srentle  shake 

*'  He's  staring  a&  you  Miss  Hemcastle  Whmt  is  th«  ouatte' 
with  Him?" 


t,'' 


4r  sc/^^sivooj). 


M3 


e-glaa 
kied  tf 

ing  t< 

•e  yoi 


Mi«  HerncAfltle  turned  calmly  from  the  cnUJreu,  %sA  tkffiim 
VK»ked  at  the  baronet. 

**Hc  certainly  looks  v^^ry  ill.     Is  theie  anything  I  can  do?" 

*' Her  voice  I"  the  baronet  said,  in  a  horror-struck  whiip«f  j 
'  her  rycA,  her  face  !     Oh,  1  leaven  !  who  is  this  ?  " 

"Who?"  his  wife  cried,  with  a  second  angry  shake.  "Atl 
^ou  mad  ?     Whom  are  vou  looking  at  ?     What  do  you  mcas  f 

'* That  woman — that  girl  I     Who  is  she?" 

"  Mias  Herncasllc,  the  ctiildren's  governess,  you  little  idiot  I" 
Lady  Dangerfield  actually  called  that  noble  baronet  a  "  little 
idiot,"  and  gave  him  a  second  shake  into  the  bargain.  "Whjii 
is  there  about  her  to  frightfin  you  into  fits,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

*'  Miss  Hemcastle,  the  governess,"  he  muttf^red,  falling  back ; 
"  and  for  one  moment — 1  thought — 1  could  have  sworn  it  was 
— it  was — " 

"Well— whom?" 

"  One  dead  and  buned  for  six  long  yean." 

He  turned  his  back  upon  her  abruptly,  and  with  that  ghaitly 
answer  walked  into  the  house. 

My  lady  turned  angrily  upon  her  new  governess. 

"  Really,  Miss  Herncastle,"  she  began,  haughtily,  "  this  ia 
very  extraordinary,  I  must  say.  The  Earl  of  Ruysland  sect 
you  last  night  in  the  moonlight  and  takes  you  for  a  ghost,  Sir 
Peter  Dangerfield  sees  you  to-day  in  the  sunshine,  and  takes 
you  for  another      Who  are  vou,  pray  ?  " 

The  fainte&t  bymptom  of  an  amused  smile  dawned  on  the 
tranquil  face  of  th<-  tall  nursery  governess. 

"  1  am  Helen  TTerncastle,  my  lady,  and  the  ghost  of  no  or« 
that  1  know  of." 

Lady  Cecil  laughed  outright — her  sweet,  mellow  laugh. 

**  How  absurd  you  are,  Ginevra.     Ghost,  indeed  I     Only  •vl 
i'jnscien  :es  see  ghuiits,  and  Miss  Herrcaitle  is  much  too  sui^ 
tantial  for  ghost  or  ftMry.     SI  e  resembles  some  one  Sir  Peter 
^8   once   known — dead  six  years  he   said.     Was  there  not  a 
cousin — a  youn^  lady  who  died  suddenly — an — " 

'*  Impostor,"  said  Lady  Dangerfield.  "  Yes,  there  was — J 
iare  mi/  it  is  she  i  Its  not  Miss  ilemcastle's  fault,  I  suppose 
:hat  she  must  resemble  dead  people,  but  it's  very  extraordinai ^ 
sind  very  unpleasant.  My  nerves  have  received  a  shocc  they 
*ilJ  uot  recover  from  for  a  week.      1  hate  scenes  1  " 

And  then,  with  a  last  backward,  distrustful  glance  at  the  gov 
.^rnes*.  ray  lady  8we|it  away  upstairs  in  v^ry  bad  temper  indeed 


344 


A  r  SCARSWO'OD. 


\\     V 


\\\ 


!  i 


:-^:,fl 


Hi! 


Bit  \mA  temper  had  years  ago  brcoine  a  ciirotiic  compUhlt  a^ 
I^y  Dangcrficld's.  The  world  had  j^one  wrong  with  her  in  thff 
days  qI  love's  young  dream,  and  .soured  titc  niUk  of  huinajij 
kindnets  within  her  for  all  time.  It  was  not  Miss  Herncastle'i 
fault,  perhaps,  that  people  should  njistake  her  at  first  sight  fc» 
a  ghost,  still  it  was  vexatious  and  exasperating,  and  if  hernerve> 
were  ts  be  unstrung  in  this  manner,  it  would  perhaps  have  beec 
better  to  have  paid  a  higher  price  for  a  commonplace  person 
who  would  not  startle  earls  and  baronets  into  mistaking  her  fc 
the  spirit  of  their  loved  ones  gone. 

I^uly  Cecil  lingered  for  a  moment  behind.     She  laid  her  slen 
ier  tfloved  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  governess,  and  looked  into 
net  face  with  that  rarely  sweer  smile  that  had  driven  so  many 
uen  fathoms  deep  in  love 

"You  will  not  mind  T.ady  Dangerfield,  Miss  Hemcastle? 
tAke  is  nervous  and  easi\y  irritated ;  she  has  had  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  in  her  life-time,  and  little  things  annoy  her.  These 
momentary  irritations  pass  with  her  as  quickly  as  they  come. 
Do  not  let  them  annoy  you." 

Sweet  and  gracious  words,  spoken  with  sweet  and  gracious 
meaning.  Miss  Hemcastle,  still  standing  w'th  Bijou  humbly  in 
oer  arms,  looked  up  and  their  eyes  met/the  eyes  of  the  working- 
woman  and  the  delicate,  high  bred  patrician.  What  was  in  the 
gaze  of  these  steady  gray  eyes  that  made  Lady  Cecil  recoil  a 
step  ?  What  in  the  ex^iression  of  the  quiet  face  that  made  hei 
remove  her  hand  hastily  and  shrink  away  ?  She  could  neve? 
have  told  ;  the  eyes  were  calm,  the  face  emotionless,  and  yet — 

"You  are  very  kind,  my  lady.  I  am  no*  annoyed — I  have  no 
right  to  be.  People  in  my  position  are  not  apt  to  be  too  sen 
iitive,  still  I  thank  you  very  much." 

\jiAy  Cecil  bent  her  head,  caught  up  her  gray  silk  skirts  and 
swept  away. 

"  Whoever  Miss  Hemcastle  is,  I  think  she  must  have  seer 
wint  they  call  better  days.  She  is  a  lady  evidently,  in  spite  o^ 
ler  position.  She  attracts  me  and  re|)els  me  at  once.  They 
4re  handsome  eyes,  but  how  coldly,  how  hardly  they  look  af 
you.  A  striking  face,  the  face  of  a  clever  woman,  and  yet  I 
can't  like  it  Something  in  the  look  she  gave  me  just  now 
nude  my  flesh  creep,  and  she  doesn't  resemble  any  dead  per 
ion  ever  /  knew.  Papa  took  her  for  a  ghost,  and  Sir  Fetei, 
too.     How  very  odd" 

Perhaps  the  would  have  thougnt  it  yet  more  odd  could  fhc 
have  sees  S?r  Fei^r  itill  lir^ering  farther   Jown  the  entranc* 


I 


!     hi!   I 

II  l'li:|li 


'AT  SCAfiSl^OOD: 


US 


ipUhit  d 
^er  in  tlif 

)f  huiiiaii 
rncastle'i 
:  sight  fc» 
ler  nerve* 
lave  be«c 
e  peraon. 
ig  her  fo' 

her  slen 

oked  into 

•o  in&ny 

Tncastle  ? 
It  deal  of 
.  These 
ley  come. 

gracious 

uimbl^  in 

\  working- 

ras  in  the 

1  recuU  a 

nade  hei 

dd  neve: 

nd  yet— 

have  no 

too  sen 

lirts  an^ 

Ire  seer 

spite  oi 

.     They 

look  af 

|id  yet  I 
ist  no\« 

|ead  per 
Peici, 

>uld  f  he 
ttranc* 


\ 


^aU*  tcreened  !>)  a  p<)ri)hyTy  case  taller  than  himself,  ami 
watching  the  govcmesSf  as  one  of  the  servants  conducted  het 
io  her  chamber.  Still  more  odd,  could  &he  havr  j^een  hia 
(»llow,  as  though  drawn  by  soute  irresistible  fa.^(in;>}?un,  up 
Uong  corridors  and  galleries^  undl  he  stood  in  the  pasaagQ 
leading  to  the  nunery,  and  the  rooms  of  the  governess  and 
children. 

While  he  stood  irresolute,  hacdly  knowing  what  he  wanteJ  oi 
why  he  had  come,  the  nursery  door  opened,  one  of  the  twirn 
came  bouncing  out,  and  ran  headlong  against  him  in  the  evening 
twilight  of  the  hall. 

"  Don't  scream,  Pansv — if  s  I."     Sir  Peter  clapped  his  hand 
•ver  her  mouth.    "  I  only  came  up  here  to — to — Pansy,  where'i . 
the  governess  ?  " 

Pansy  pointed  to  the  nursery  door,  with  wide  eyes  of  wondei. 

"  What  is  she  doing  ?  " 

"  I^ooking  out  of  the  win<low  and  looking  grumpy.  I  hate 
grumpy  governesses.  I  hate  Miss  Herncastle.  Why  didn't 
mamma  fetch  us  a  governess  like  Aunt  Cecil.  Sh^s  nice.  She 
plays  blind  man's  bii^  with  us,  and  battledore.  I  hate  poky 
people.  So  does  Pearl.  Miss  Herncastle' s  poky,  and  solemn, 
and  stift     Papa  Peter,  do  you  want  her?     I'll  tell  her." 

"Oh!  no,  I  don't  want  her — you  mustn't  tell  her.  I — I'm 
going  down  again.  Don't  say  anything  about  my  being  up 
here,  Pansy — there's  a  good  girl." 

He  turned  in  a  nervous,  irresolute  manner — a  manner  that 
had  become  habitual  to  him  of  late  years — and  gro]>ed  his  vva> 
downstairs.  Six  years  had  pai^sed  since  that  tragic  day,  when 
he  had  looked  ujwn  K.atherine  Dangerliekl's  dtad  face,  and 
those  six  years  had  made;  him  an  iA*\  \\v\i\.  Reniorse,  terror, 
nerves,  dyspepsia,  be  it  what  it  might — th-;  fact  remained :  Sir 
Peter  Dangerheid,  at  uix-and-thuty,  wa.-;  an  old  man.  He  wa* 
pne  of  your  fleshless,  sallow  people,  ^vho  naturally  age  fiist,  and 
since  his  marriage  the  change  for  the  worse  had  been  twice  as 
apparent  as  before.  His  pale,  sunken  eyes  looked  paler  and 
^mmer  than  ever,  he  walked  with  a  habitual  stoop,  he  shut 
himself  up  with  dry-as^iust  books,  and  insects  and  fossils,  an^ 
had  little  to  say  to  anybody. 

The  resident  gentry  of  the  neighlwrhood  had  instinctively 
shunned  him  since  his  accession  to  Scrt,rswood.  Strangen 
looked  with  a  sort  of  contemptuous  pity  at  the  dried-up,  shriv- 
eled, pitiful  master  of  this  grand  d';=i;iain,  and  h.?  shrank  away 
INwo  those  h'^miliating  glances  with  rr>f«rhid  pride.     The  d^s'T"^ 


946 


AT  SCARS  WOOD. 


I  If 


hi    ! 


<.':.( 


& 


m 
ill 

m 


}'  I 


^i  i^^ 


I    '=, 


of  fab  heart  was  his — Kathenne  Dixngtrficld  wras  in  her  grav9 
-he  had  had  his  revenge  and  hi?  trinrnT)h—''W  never  in  the 
d»ys  of  his  most  abject  poverty  had  he  been  half  so  miserable 
at  now. 

Of  Mrs.  Vavas<:)r  he  had  never  heiird  since  that  night  upon 
ffhich  he  had  paid  her  price,  and  ihey  had  parted.     In  Paris  ot 
Baden,  doubtless  under  some  new  nom  de-fantasia,  she  was  en 
joying  herself  after  her  own  fashion  uix)n  the  proceeds  of  he? 
plotting. 

Of  adl  the  actors  ir»  that  dark  tragedy  of  Bcarswood,  only 
himself  remained.  Mr.  Kenry  Olis  shortly  after  removed  to 
London  with  all  his  oelongings,  and  with  Gaston  Dantree. 
"  Katherine  Dangerfield  left  him  in  my  charge,"  the  young  as- 
mstant  said.  "  In  my  charge  he  remains  until  he  ii  able  to  take 
care  of  himself." 

Whether  or  no  that  tinie  had  ever  com.e,  Sir  Peter  had  never 
discovered.  Mr.  Otis  had  never  rt-turned  to  Castleford,  and  it 
was  a  subject  he  was  chary  of  r mentioning,  or  thinking  of  even. 
It  came  to  him  in  dreams  -  bad,  disturbing  dreams,  engendered 
partly  by  an  evil  conscience,  partly  by  heavy  English  dinnerb. 
In  his  waking  hours  the  aim  of  his  life  was  to  banish  it.  And 
lo  I  in  one  of  the  hours  when  he  had  most  succeeded,  a  woman, 
a  stranger,  stood  before  him,,  like— -horribly,  unnaturally  like — 
Kathenne  Dangerfield 

"  Livings  I  will  pursue  you  to  the  end  of  the  earth.  Dead, 
I  will  retunrj,  if  the  dead  can  I  " 

He  had  never  forgotten  those  words — words  only  spoken  in  a 
girl'^  imjwtent  passion,  in  her  knowledge  of  the  co  vardly  and 
superstitious  nature  she  had  to  <leal  with.  Words  that  were 
bttt  a  weak  woman's  meaningless  threat,  but  which  from  the 
hft!i."  he  had  looked  upon  her  dead  face  had  returacd  to  him 
with  ghastly  force. 

Would  Miss  Hemcastle  be  at  dinner  ? 

That  was  the  one  thought  uppennost  in  his  mind  as  he  made 
bsfi  own  toilet.  He  kept  no  valet  or  body-servant  of  any  kind. 
Ts^tB  were  expensive,  thievish,  and  prying.  None  of  the  tribe 
flfeoi^  spy  upon  him,  and  help  devour  his  substance.  My  lady 
was  enormously  extravagant.     Retrenchment  niuit  begin  some^ 

Rich  with  silver,  s{Kirkling  with  crystal,  white  with  liiien,  ga; 

wttii  flowers,  the  roun<t  dinner-table  looked  »  picture  as  he 

ame  in.    Throuigh  the  long  French  window,  open  to  tibe  kiwn. 

'j''^   perfume   of  my  ^'>Av'%   rose   garden,  the   magnoUas,  and 


AT  SCARSWOOD. 


M7 


in  lh« 
iaerable 

tt  upon 
Paris  Of 
was  en 
J  of  het 

xi,  only 
oved  to 
3antree. 
oung  as- 
;  to  take 

3ul  never 

d,  and  it 
of  even, 
gendered 

dinnerb. 
it.     And 

woman , 
ly  like- 

Dead, 

>ken  in  a 
dly  and 
at  were 

rom  the 
to  him 


I  he  made 

ly  kind. 

Ithe  tribe 

]My  lady 

in  sonie^ 

ien,  gay 

;  as  he 

le  kiwn. 

ks.  an<J 


cJewMirti  came.  A  silver  gray  mist  lay  over  the  park«  a  bint, 
»ew  moon  glimmered  up  in  the  blue,  a  nightingale  sang  hi 
pUintiYe  vesper  chant  in  the  green  gloom  of  the  trees,  and  tti 
off  the  shine  of  the  sumrnei  «tars  lay  upon  the  sea.  And  withim 
the  gas  was  lit  in  all  the  crystal  globes  and  silver  branches, 
and  my  lady,  dressed  in  one  of  Worth's  mivst  ravishing  riastef* 
pieces,  though  there  were  no  gentlemen  to  admire  but  her  uncle 
and  husband,  looked  a  fit  goddess  to  preside  at  the  feast  Ixirdl 
Ruysland,  bland,  urbane,  suave,  smooth,  was  faultlessly  attired^ 
and  with  a  rose  in  his  button-hole.  Lady  Cecil,  in  gold  brown 
lilk  the  hue  of  her  eyes,  was  also  there  ;  but  not  Miss  Hem- 
castle.     He  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"  I  mi^ht  have  known  it,"  he  muttered.  "  My  lady  isn't  the 
one  to  dme  with  her  nursery  governess,  company  or  no  com- 
pany. I  shall  see  very  little  of  her,  that's  evident,  and  I'm 
glad  of  ft  What  the  devil  does  the  woman  mean  looking  like 
-like--.?" 

He  did  not  c^re  to  speak  the  name  even  to  himself;  but 
ignore  them  as  we  may.  there  are  things  that  will  not  be 
forgotten.  This  was  one.  Miss  Herncaitle  was  not  present 
at  the  dinner-table,  but  the  phantom  face  of  the  dead  was.  In 
spirit  K&therine  Dangerfield  was  at  his  elbow,  and  he  ate  and 
drank  like  a  man  iti  a  gloomy  dream. 

"  You'»'e  not  looking  well,  my  dear  Dangerfield,"  my  Lord 
«ji  Ruysland  said.  "  You  positively  are  not.  You  lose  flesh, 
you  lose  spirits,  you  lo^^e  appetite.  It  is  evident  that  the  aii 
of  Scarswood  does  not  agree  with  you.  Take  my  advice,  and 
go  abroad." 

His  lordship  was  right.  The  air  of  Scarswood  did  not  agree 
with  Sir  Peter  Dangertfteld,  and  uever  would. 

"  Go  to  Germany,  and  try  thv»  mineral  waters.     Charnge  oH 
scene  and  tcmics  are  what  you  wunt.     By  all  means.  Danger 
iield,  go  abroad  and  try  the  waters.     Beastly  stulf,  I  admit, 
Itit  of  ttse,  sir — of  use." 

He  needed  waters  certainly — the  waters  of  Lethe-— 4»ad  that 
^d)led  river  existed  in  Germany.  He  was  almost  entirely 
iBent  at  dinner — silent  still  "  across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine," 
bat  in  the  drawing  room,  after  dinner,  he  suddenly  found  hij 
lonoae.  His  wife  was  practising  some  new  music  sent  her  by 
Ma^or  Frankland,  whose  on^  7.-calN:ncss  it  was  to  fancy  himseu 
a  BioderD  Mozart,  and  bore  his  friends  to  death  with  his  owv 
oa—PoAAftna,  Lord  Ruysland  had  composed  himself  for  a 
c<»Aitahh>  shimber  in  a  sleepy  hollow  arm-chair,  and  f 4«4| 


M 


AT  SCARSWOOD. 


li  is;  i  I 


I  1 


I  !     J I  r! 


I     Ml" 


in 


M   1.. 


peniive  and  pale,  stood  gazing  out  at  the  IntaimNU, 
■tarrydusk,  listening  to  the  nightingale's  song,  to  the  call  of  th« 
deer  in  the  park,  to  the  sofi  summer  murmur  of  the  trees. 

"  Lady  Cecil,  is  Miss  Hemcastle's  hair  brown  or  black?  *' 

Prom  her  waking  dream,  a  sharp  piping  voice  at  her  elbow 
Mking  this  abrupt  question,  aroused  her.     She  glanced  round, 
glanced  down,  for  she  was  tiie  taller  of  the  two,  and  saw  the 
pinched,  yellow  face  of  little  Sir  Peter. 

Now,  l<ady  Cecil,  out  of  the  greatness  of  a  generous  heart, 
had  an  infinite  pity  for  all  inferior,  all  persecuted,  all  long-suff<^' 
ing  things.  A\id  she  pitied  Sir  Peter  greatly.  His  wife  treated 
him  with  about  half  a  quarter  the  respect  and  affection  she  felt 
for  Bijou,  and  wo^ld  have  bewailed  the  death  of  the  dog  much 
the  deeper  of  t>\e  two.  He  looked  sickly  and  miserable  :  he  iMui 
no  friends,  no  <:ompanions  ;  he  was,  in  her  eyes,  a  poor,  little, 
imposed-uponr  persecuted  martyr.  Some  instinct  told  him  she 
was  his  friend?  And  in  hir.  trouble  he  came  to  her  now.  She  would 
not  laugh  at  hMn,  she  would  not  repeat  what  he  said,  and  he  must 
confide  in  sorae  one  or  die. 

*'  My  dear  Sir  Peter,  how  you  startled  me  I  I  was  thousands 
of  miles  awai^,  i  believe,  when  you  spoke.  What  did  you  say  ? 
Miss  HemcMtle — what  ?  " 

"  I  asked  you  if  Miss  Hemcastle  had  long,  light-brown  hair  ?  " 

A  corictus  question  surely.  \j9Ay  Cecil's  soft,  fawn-colored 
eyei  opened  a  little. 

"  For  its  length,  I  cannot  answer.  Who  can  tell  who  has 
long  or  shoit  hair  in  these  days  of  chignons  and  false  tresses. 
Of  the  color  I  can't  speak  positively.    It  is  black — ^jet  black." 

*'  Black !  "  he  gave  a  great  gasp  of  relief.  "  You  are  sure, 
l^y  Cecil?" 

*' Certain,  Sir  Peter.  And  her  eyebows  and  eyelashes  are 
«f  die  BAine  dense  darkness." 

"And  her  eyes,  \a  V  Cecil — are  they  gray  ?" 

"  Still  harping  on  my  daughter  \ "  laughed  la  Reint  BUuuht 
**  Yes,  Sir  Peter,  they  are  gray — very  dark — very  large — vesj 
ine.  You  appear  to  take  a  n^ost  extraordinary  interest  in 
Gdnerra's  new  governess,  certainly.  Resembles,  doubtless, 
some  one  you  have  known  ?  " 

"  Resembles  I  that  is  not  the  word  for  it.  T  tell  you,  T^y 
Cedi " — in  a  voice  of  deep  suppressed  intensity — "  it  is  thi 
isaie  &oe,  the  same — the  same.  Older,  graver,  deeper,  change^i 
hi  same  thi4§5 — but  tihe  same.     The  wx  of  Katbesirt'^  Dao- 


it    SC.iAW'irOOD. 


a^ 


Uoftht 
les. 

ick?" 
'  elbow 
I  round, 
saw  tht 

at  heait, 

ig- suffer- 
e  treated 
1  she  felt 
[og  much 
:  he  bad 
►or,  little, 
I  him  she 
>he  would 
i  he  must 

housanda 
you  say  ? 

mhair?" 
n-colored 

who  has 

e  tresses. 

black," 

are  sure, 

kshes  are 


BUuuhi 

je— vesj 

Iterest  in 

)oubtle83» 

>a,  \^J 

lit  u  th« 
changed 


I 


The  Attne  had  not  p<iSi.tvl  )Ai,  ajo^  mr  years.  His  eyes  ha«i  a 
glitter,  his  whole  face  an  oAcuuiiO;iiL,  his  voice  an  intensity  &h« 
had  never  heard  before.  Sht  d;<LW  \x^^  from  him  a  little,  yet 
curious  and  interested  too. 

" Katherine  Dangerfurld.  Yes,  1  ha.ve  heard  her  story.  It 
«vas  in  the  papers  years  ago,  and  Ginevia  told  me  of  her  at  tht 
time  of  her  marriage.  A  very  sad  story- -a  very  sad  fate.  Sh« 
lost  all — fortune,  name,  father,  and  her  ii.ifiancjd  husband,  on 
her  wedding  day.  And  a  week  after  she  died.  Tt  is  the  sad- 
dest story,  I  think  I  ever  heard.  What  a  dastard,  what  a  cow- 
ardly dastard  that  man  must  have  been.  What  became  of  him. 
Sir  Peter  ? ' 

"  I  don't  know,  I  have  never  asked — I  nevt'r  cared.  /  was 
not  to  blame — no  one  has  a  right  to  blanie  u^e — I  only  took 
what  was  lawfully  my  own — she  had  no  shadow  <ji  right  to  Scars- 
wood.  How  could  I  tell  she  would  die  ?  Other  women  lose 
their  fathers,  their  husbands,  their  fortunes,  and  live  on.  How 
did  1  know  it  would  kill  her  ?  1  say  again,"  his  vcice  rising 
shrill,  and  high,  and  angry,  "  no  one  has  a  right  to  blame 
me/" 

"  And  no  one  does  blame  you,  Sir  Peter.  Why  should  they  ? 
Of  course  you  could  not  foretell  she  would  die.  The  only  one 
to  blame  was  that  wretch  who  deserted  her.  She  was  ready  to 
give  up  everything  for  him — to  take  him,  poor  and  obscure  as 
he  was,  and  love  him,  and  give  him  all,  and  in  the  hour  of  her 
ruin  he  deserted  her.  Oh,  it  was  a  shame — a  shame  !  And  (lin- 
evra's  governess  really  resembles  this  poor  dead  young  lady 
to  strongly  ?  " 

"It  is  horrible,  I  tell  you — horrible  !  I  thought  I  saw  « 
ghost  when  she  rose  up  before  me  three  hours  ago.  Lad« 
Cecil,  do  you  believe  in  ghosts  ?  " 

He  asked  the  question  abruptly,  and  with  f>erfcrt  gravity 
Lady  Cecil  laughed. 

"Believe  in  ghosts  !    My  dear  Sir  Peter,  who  does  beUeve  in 
ghosts  in  the  nineteenth  century  ?     I  fancy  the  ghosts  of  Baa 
quo  and  Hamlet's  fatlier  are  the  orly  ghosts  ever  seen  in  Eng- 
land now.    Like  the  fairies,  they  crossed  to  Gcmmny  centuri-i 

"Have  you  read  Scott's  ' Demonolo^y'  and  Mrs.  CrowA*! 
'Night  Side  of  Nature^  I.ady  Cecil  ?  " 

"  And  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  raw  head  and-bloody  bone  lOiTiiiic^y  t 
(n^  yt%  Sir  Peter,  I  have  gone  through  thero  sil." 

"  Ad3  idU  you  doa't  believe  ?  " 


1 

1 

i 

1 

\     ! 

1: , 

mil 


ftH' 


it.Sllli' 


II 


20 


/f*/'  SCAftSlVOOfl 


"  And  stiW  I  don't  believe.  VVhtn  J  see  a  gh(  st  bon^JUUUA 
in  -no,  oat  of  the  flesh,  1  shall  yield  ;  nol  sooner.  Bui  wh) 
do  you  ask  ?  Surely,  Sir  Peter,  you  don't  believe  in  anythinf 
•o  absurd  ?  " 

"Who  can  vouch  for  its  absurdity  ?  Lady  Cecil,  yes  —I  d« 
^Heve  that  the  spirits  of  the  dead  return." 

i^dy  Cecil  looked  at  him,  half  laughing,  half-dismayed,  an^ 
^ave  A  little  feminine  shiver, 

"  Good  gracious !  how  Clerman  you  grow.  This  comes  of 
Uving  alone,  with  blinded  eyesight  *pcring  over  miserable 
books,'  as  Tennyson  says.  Now,  Sir  Peter,  I  am  skeptical  1 
want  prooC  But  i  am  open  to  conviction.  Did  you  ever  see 
a  ghost  ?  That  is  what  alchemists  call  a  '  crucial  test'  Id 
the  dead  waste  and  middle  of  the  night  do  spirits  from  the  vasty 
deep  come  to  make  darkness  hideous  ?  " 

"You  laugh,  Lady  Cecil,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  In  the  vulgai 
vaperstition  no  ghost  in  shroud  ever  came  to  my  bedside,  but 
there  are  other  ways  of  being  liaunted.  There  are  dreams — hor- 
rible, awful  dreams,  that  come  night  after  night,  the  same  thing 
over  and  over,  and  from  which  you  start  up  with  the  cold  sweat 
on  your  brow  and  the  damp  of  death  in  your  hair — visions  that 
come  to  you  in  your  sleep  from  the  infernal  regions,  I  believe, 
more  ghastly  than  any  waking  vision.  Over  and  over,  and 
ever  the  same — what  do  you  call  that,  T.ady  Cecil  ?" 

"  Hot  suppers,  Sir  Peter,  and  heavy  dinners.  Any  skillful 
physician  will  exorcise  your  dreaming  apparitions." 

"  And  a  few  miles  from  here  there  if  a  house,  Bracken  Hollow 
it  is  called,  which  no  one,  not  the  bravest  in  the  parish,  is  willing 
to  pass  after  nightfall.  A  house  in  wii^^h  a  murder  once  was 
done,  where  unearthly  sights  are  seen  at  uneartWy  hours,  and 
otnearthly  sounds  heaxrd.     What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  That  it's  a  very  common  story,  indeed.  Why  even  at  papa't 
place,  down  in  Hants,  Clive  Court,  popular  rumor  says  there 
is  a  ghost  An  Earl  of  Ruysland,  who  committed  suicide  two 
banned  years  ago,  stalks  about  yet  in  th?  twilight,  gory  and 
grim.  That  is  the  legend,  but  no  living  mortal  has  ever  seen 
him.  If  he  walks,  as  they  say,  he  takes  good  care  to  keep  out 
of  sight  There  are  haunted  houses  in  every  county  in  Eng- 
land. Mo  fine  old  family  would  be  complete  without  its  family 
ghost" 

"  You  don't  believe  what  you  say.  Lady  Cecil.  I  tell  yof^  i 
Save  kieard  the  sounds  at  Bracken  Ho&ow  myseH" 

*« Indeed  1"  but  m^  La(%  Cecd  gtn^ed  altefitkaUir :  '*%rmi 


I'iA 


AT  SCARSWOOD, 


2%i 


Ue9M 

Lit  why 
lything 

--1  d« 

>me8  of 
iserable 
ical  1 
iver  see 
St.'  In 
le  vasty 

e  vulgat 
iide,  but 
IS — hor- 
ne  thing 
Id  sweat 
ons  that 
believe, 
er,  and 

skillful 

Hollow 

{s  willing 

icc  was 

|urs,  and 

|it  papa' ft 
js  there 
bide  two 
mry  and 
|er  seen 
jeep  out 
lin  Eng- 
}s  family 

yott  I 


hm4  fide  haunted  house  !  What  a  charming  neighbodiood 
Now  the  one  ungratified  ambition  of  my  life  is  to  see  a  disen^ 
bodied  spirir — to  hear  it,  if  it  is  inclined  to  make  noise.  Before 
I  am  a  week  older  I  shall  pay — what  was  it  ? — Bracken  Hollow 
—a  visit.  Bracken  Hollow !  it  has  a  ghostly  and  mysterious 
sound.  Has  the  ghost  full  possession  of  the  premises,  or  if 
Bracken  Hollow  shared  by  some  less  ethereal  tenant  ?  " 

"An  old  woman  lives  there.  She  was  Katherine  Danger' 
acid's  nurse — Old  Hannah." 

"  Then  I  shall  pay  Old  Hannah  a  visit,  and  investigate.  I 
shall  positively,  Sir  Peter.  Excuse  me,  Ginevra  is  calling — \ 
suppose  she  wants  me  to  help  her  with  that  tiresome  sonata." 

She  walked  away,  leaving  Sir  Peter  gloomily  by  the  window 
aione. 

"  I  have  heard  of  monomaniacs — sane  on  all  things  save  one 
— mad  on  that,"  she  thought.  "  I  believe  Sir  Peter  is  a  mono- 
maniac on  the  subject  of  ghosts." 

Perhaps  Lady  Cecil  was  right.  He  hadn't  even  told  her  all  his 
madness.  How  evening  after  evening,  rain  or  shine,  summci 
or  winter,  through  ^eet  or  stonn,  a  "  spirit  in  his  feet"  led  him 
whether  or  no  to  Katherine  Dangerfield's  grave.  He  had  no 
wish  to  go,  but  he  went — he  could  not  stay  away.  It  had 
grown  such  a  habit  that  it  seemed  to  him  now  if  he  did  not  pay 
Uiat  twilight  visit  she  would  assuredly  visit  him  befoj-e  morning 
dawned.  He  made  his  daily  pilgrimage  to  this  Mecca,  and  the 
people  of  the  town  had  grown  tired  talking  and  wondering  ovei 
it.  "  He  took  everything  from  her  when  she  was  alive,"  they 
said,  "  and  now  that  she's  dead  he  plays  the  hypocrite,  and 
visits  her  grave  every  evening.  1  wonder  he  isn't  afraid  she'll 
rise  up  and  confront  him." 

Perhaps  he  was — it  had  been  the  mania  of  his  life.  Surely 
Katherine  had  kq)t  her  vow.  He  was,  if  there  ever  was  in  this 
vcKld,  "  a  haunted  man" — sane  enough  on  all  other  things — on 
ibis,  much  thinking  had  made  him  mad. 

He  retired  early  that  night — he  was  less  alone  shut  up  b) 
himself  thac  in  the  drawing-room  with  his  wife  and  her  relatives. 
All  night  long  candles  burned  in  his  bedroom,  9xsA  one  of  the 
men  servants  slept  in  an  oi>en  closet  adjoining.  Never  ndthout 
light  and  never  alone. 

He  had  grown  sleepless,  too — aud  it  was  generally  the  smasl 
hours  before  slumber  came  to  him.  He  arose  late  nejct  day» 
JMreakfasted  by  himself,  and  did  not  join  the  family  uttdJ  liinch« 
(ime^ 


«l» 


AT  SCARSWOOD. 


I    ! 


WW 


m^ 


ji .' 


Ml     !.    ^   I    ■ 


l:i|l:il' 


MiM  HemcAstle  was  not  at  that  meal  either — it  seeibed  ... . 
to  take  all  hers  with  the  children  in  the  nursety.     He  txui 
hb  wile's  hauteur  and  iutoleraiice   to   thank  for  soniethiii^  ai 

lOMt 

He  letumed  to  his  study,  spent  three  hours  impaling  ni* 
beetles  and  cockchafers,  then  arose,  put  o!i  his  hat  and  tumcf^ 
to  leave  the  house.  Little  Pansy  ran  up  against  btm  in  thf 
tialL 

"  Papa  Peter,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know  who's  come  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna.  Such  a — oh  such  a  great  big  man, 
mth  yellow  whiskers  and  a  solemn  face — as  solemn  as  Miss 
Hemcastle's.  We  don't  like  Miss  Hemcastle — Pearl  and  me 
—she  won't  play  with  us,  and  can't  dress  dolls.  We  like  Aunt 
Cecil — ^we  do.  She  was  playing  *  Hunt  the  Squirrel  *  with  us 
when  Sir  Arthur  came  up  in  the  lly  from  the  station.  He's  in 
the  diawing-room  now  with  mamma  and  Uncle  Raoul,  and  is 
going  to  stay  ever  so  long.  I  wish  he  had  stayed  away.  Aunt 
CecU  won't  play  *Hunt  the  Squirrel'  now  any  more.  She 
blushed  when  he  caught  her.     i  hate  great  big  men." 

"  Ah  J  yes — at  nine — you'll  probably  change  your  opinion  at 
nineteen,"  muttered  "papa  Peter"  cynically,  passing  out. 

Except  as  they  swelled  the  diurnal  bill  of  household  expense^ 
my  lad/s  visitors  were  very  little  concern  to  my  lady's  husband 
He  went  on  his  way  now,  his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  his  smaL 
stooping  figure  bent,  his  spectacles  fixed  on  the  ground — moody, 
solitary,  unhappy— to  pay  his  daily  visit  to  that  lonesome  grave. 

The  last  light  of  the  July  sun  came  slanting  over  the  downs, 
through  the  trees,  and  lay  in  ridges  of  glory  upon  tlie  graves. 
It  was  all  strangely  hushed  here  ;  the  town  with  its  bustle,  nnc 
life,  and  noise  lay  behind.  Death  and  silence  reigned.  He 
rarely  met  any  one  at  this  hour ;  the  towns-people  were  taking 
iheir  tea.  Yonder  was  the  house  wherein  she  had  died — y^ 
\tx  her  grave,  with  its  gray  cross  and  its  brief  inscription — 

Kathseins, 

iBTAT  17. 

RBst;maAM. 

He  knew  it  so  well — ^he  had  been  here  so  often.  Would  he 
f»  on  OMning  here,  he  wondered  wearily,  as  long  as  he  lived. 

He  paused.  What  was  that  ?  He  was  near  the  gravey  vaA 
(landing  looking  down  upon  it,  her  back  turned  to  him.  h«  aan 
a  woioan.  A  woixian  I  His  heart  gave  one  great  bound,  thee 
ceeoied  to  turn  cold  and  stiU.    He  went  co— 4m~-«oftly  ovw  t^' 


ng   Xi 
\  in  Uk 


^Om:E   MORE    THF    GATU.   BEHIND  MM  FAUJL* 


2^ 


^rass,  impelled  by  the  samr  u  resistible  fascination  that  drew 
h^^m  here.  His  feet  struck  a  dry  twig ;  it  snapped,  and  the 
i/Oman  turned  and  looked  round.  There,  over  KatherkM 
Dangerfield's  graye,  looking  at  him  with  Katherine  DangerfiddT^ 
tfet,  itood  Miss  Hemcasde,  the  governess  f 


ig  man, 
SIS  Misfl 
and  me 
Le  Aunt 
with  us 
He's  in 
,  and  is 
Aunt 
i.     Sh€ 

inion  at 
lut. 

:pense^ 
usband 
is  smat 
moody, 
grave, 
downs, 
graves. 
le,  anc 
L     He 
taking 
— ywi 
n — 


uldhe 

lived. 

vCy  an4 

h«  aaiv 

d,  thee 


(I 


ClUPTER  V. 


ONCX   MORE   THE    GATE   BEHIND    MB    FALLS.' 


OR  one  moment  he  thought  the  dead  had  ari&^n ;  foi 
one  moment — he  stood  speechless  and  spell-bound  ; 
for  one  Driel,  horrible  moment  he  thought  he  saw 
Katherine  Dangerlield  looking  at  him  across  her  own 
grave  !  She  made  no  attempt  to  speak,  but  stood  with  her  icy 
gaze  fixed  upon  him — her  pale,  changeless,  marble  face.  He 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  Miss  Herncastle  ! "  he  gasped — "  you  I  " 

Her  eyes  left  him,  and  he  moved.  While  they  were  riveted 
apon  him  he  had  stood  as  one  under  a  spell. 

"  I,  Sir  Peter ! " — the  low,  soft,  sweet  ton^s  lingered  like 
music  on  the  ear — "and  I  fear  I  have  startled  you  again;  but 
[  never  dreamed  of  seeing  you  here." 

"  Nor  I  you.  What  brings  you,  a  sti anger,  to  this  place  of 
all  places.  Miss  Herncastle,  so  soon  after  your  arrival  ?  " 

He  asked  the  question  angrily  and  .^suspiciously.  Surely 
there  was  something  ominous  and  sinist*ir  in  this  woman,  who 
Wx>ked  enough  like  the  dead  girl  to  hav«  been  her  twin  sister, 
und  who  visited  \it<  grave  so  speedilv. 

Miss  Herncastle  drew  her  mantle  about  her  tall,  slim  figure, 
and  turned  to  go. 

"  I  came  out  for  a  walk,  Sir  Peter.  I  have  been  in  th« 
school-room  all  day,  ar\d  I  am  not  used  to  such  close  confine 
raent.  1  asked  my  lady's  pennission  to  take  a  walk,  and  shf 
gave  it.  I  am  a  rapid  walker,  and  I  soon  found  niy*elf  inert, 
the  town  behind.  It  looked  so  p«ace^il,  so  calm,  so  inviting 
that  I  entered.  This  lonely  grave  attracted  me,  and  1  wa/ 
readhig  the  inscription  as  you  came  up.     If  I  had  known  i 


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eoald  have  mattered  in  any  way  that  1  would  have  distorbeC 
any  one  by  coming  —  I  should  not  have  rome.' 

She  bent  her  head  respectfully,  and  moved  away  Dressed 
all  in  black,  moving  with  a  peculiarly  swift,  noiselesA,  glkl'ng 
step,  she  looked  not  unlike  a  phantom  herself  flitting  airK)iif 
the  graves.  And  in  what  an  emotionless,  level  monotone  ih4 
^d  spoken,  as  a  child  repeats  a  lesson  learned  by  rote  ! 

He  stood  and  looked  after  her,  darkly,  distrustfully,  h 
jeemed  plausible  enough  ;  but  that  hidden  instinct  that  comet 
to  us  to  wam  us  of  danger,  told  him  something  was  wrong. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  he  repeated — "who  is  she  ?  r-^nough  like 
Katherine  to  be  her  twin  sister.  Who  is  stie  ?"  He  stopped 
iuddenly.  "Enough  like  Katherine  to  be  her  s  vin  sister  ! " 
And  why  not? — why  not  Katherine's  sister?  Who  was  there 
fo  say  Kaiherire  never  had  a  sister  ?  He  knew  nothing  of  hei 
w  her  family,  save  what  Mrs.  Vavasor  chose  to  tell.  Katherine 
knight  have  had  a  dozen  sisters  for  what  he  or  slie  ever  knew. 
A  gleam  came  into  his  eyes  ;  he  set  his  teeth  with  some  of  his  old 
bull-dog  resolution.  "  Katherine  is  dead  and  buried — nothing 
can  alter  t/tat ;  and  this  young  woman,  this  Miss  Herncastle,  is 
more  like  her  than  it  is  possible  for  any  but  sisters  to  be.  I'll 
find  out  who  Miss  Herncastle  is,  and  all  about  her,  and  what 
she's  here  for,  before  I'm  a  month  older  ! " 

"Queenie!"  Lady  Dangerfield  said,  tossing  her  cousm  a 
rose-colored,  rose-sealed,  rose-scented  note,  "  read  that" 

Lady  Cecil  caught  it.  The  note  was  written  in  big,  dashing 
^hirography,  and  this  is  what  it  said  : 

"  St.  James  Strbkt,  July  ad. 
"DCARXST  Lady  Dangerfield:  A  million  thanks  for  your  graciotu 
rendembraiAoe — a  million  more  for  your  charming  invitation.  I  will  be  with 
/ou  on  the  afternoon  of  the  4th.  From  what  I  hear  of  it,  Scarswood  Park 
■ittflt  be  a  terrestrial  paradise,  but  would  not  any  place  be  that  where  you 
wr;re?  Devotedly, 

"jASFifc  Algernon  Franklafto,  * 

I.ady  Cecil's  brown  eyes  riashed.  The  fulsome,  florid  style 
rf  compliment,  the  familiarity — the  easy  insolence  of  the  writer 
— i;rated  like  some  discordant  noise  0x1  her  nerves.  She  looked 
!p  reproachfully. 

"Oh,  Ginevra 

"  And,  oh,  Queenie ! "  with  a  sh  :>ri  laugh,  but  not  lookin| 
i  Mind  fiom  the  stand  of  guelder-roiv.s  over  which  she  vras  bend- 
W  ff.  **  You  see  ws  will  not  be  moped  to  death  down  here  aftd 
a  L     And  we  BhaR  hare  two  gCTntlrrnen  more  than  we  counted 


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im  iox  our  lawn  party  this  afccmuos.     I  wonder  what  sort  of 
croquet  player  Sir  Arthur  is,  by  the  bye." 

"  Ginevra,  I  wish  yon  hadn't  asked  Major  Frankland  d< 
here.  I  detest  *hat  man.  Sir  Petci  is  jealous.  The  odiout 
familiar  way  he  addresses  you,  too,  and  his  horrid,  coarse,  com- 
inonplace  compliments.  Any  place  must  be  a  paradise  wheic 
you  aie !     liah  !     Why  doesn't  he  try  to  be  origir.al  at  least." 

"  Lady  Cecil  CHve  is  i)leased  to  be  fastidious,"  retorted  T-dd»' 
Dangerfield,  tearing  a  guelder-rose  to  pieces.  "  Who  '\%  orisi- 
nal  nowadays  ?  To  be  original  nieanii  to  be  eccentric — to  be 
eccentric  is  the  worst  possible  style,  only  allowable  in  poets  and 
lunatics.     Major  Frankland  being  neither,  only — " 

"  A  well-dressed  idiot^ — " 

"  Only  an  everyday  gentleman — answers  my  note  of  invita- 
tion in  everyday  style.  You  ought  to  thank  me,  Queenie. 
Who  is  to  entertain  Sir  Arthur  and  take  him  off  your  hands 
when  you  tire  of  him  ?  Even  baronets  with  thirty  thousand  a 
year  may  pall  sometimes  on  the  frivolous  mind  of  a  young  lady 
of  two-and-twenty.  Your  father  will  do  his  best — and  Unc'ie 
Raoul's  best,  when  he  tries  to  be  entertaining,  means  a  good 
deal;  but  still  Major  Frankland  will  be  a  great  auxiliary. 
Queenie,  I  wonder  why  you  dislike  hmi  so  much  !  " 

"  I  dislike  all  mere  club-room  loungers,  all  well-dressed  tai- 
lors* blocks,  without  one  idea  in  their  heads,  or  one  honest, 
manly  feeling  in  their  hearts.  Jasper  Frankland  knows  Sii 
Peter  hates  him.  If  he  were  a  right-feeling  man,  would  he  come 
at  all,  knowing  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  when  I  invite  him.  And  again,  and  again,  and 
again  Sir  Peter !  I  wish  Sir  Peter  was  at — Queenie,  you  have 
had  an  excellent  bringing-up  under  the  care  of  that  wicked, 
worldly  old  dowager,  Lady  Ruth,  but  in  some  things  you  are  as 
stupid  as  any  red-cheeked,  butter-making  dairymaid.  Talking 
•f  ideas,  and  feeling,  and  Sir  Peter's  jealousy — such  nonsense  ! 
Wken  I  did  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield — and,  without  exception,  1 
believe  he  is  the  mor/c  intensely  stupid  and  disagreeable  little 
wretch  the  wide  earth  holds — when  1  did  him  the  honor  oi 
marnring  him,  I  did  it  to  secure  for  myself  a  pleasant  home,  all  the 
comforts  and  luxuries  of  life — and  I  class  the  society  of  pleas- 
ant mew  like  Jasper  Frankland,  chief  among  those  luxuries. 
He  is  the  best  figure,  the  best  style,  the  best  bow,  the  best 
waitzer,  t}»e  bc^t  second  in  a  duel,  and  *he  best  scandal -monger 
hem  here  to  the  *  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall.'  If  Sir  Peter 
4(k>e«ii'*  hke  ^b&  friends  I  ask,  then  I  would  recommend  Sir  Petei 


lu 


s)6  "^Mrrir  more  the  gatp  »ew.\\*  ifjt  fa/ls^ 


f . 


i  ! 


|:  ,;;;„ 


to  keep  oat  of  their  sight,  and  make  himH<;^f  Vpvy  in  the  roi 
cicty  of  his  impaled  bugs,  and  dried  buttert!»es,  ^^d  gtutVcd 
toaos.  Congenial  companionship,  I  should  siy  -birds  of  f 
feather,  etc.  By  the  way,  what  was  that  long  disroorse  you 
and  he  had  last  evening  about  ?     Natural  philosophy  ?" 

"No,  ghosts,"  answered  Lady  Cecil,  gravely.  "He  he 
Ucves  in  ghosts.  So  ditl  the  great  Dr.  john^iun — was  it  ?  lU 
isn't  quite  positive  yet  that  Miss  Herncastle  is  nut  the  dis<nnk 
bodied  spirit  of  that  poor  girl  that  died  here.  And  he  sayf 
there  is  a  place  three  miles  off-Brackfa  Hollow,  I  believe, 
haunted  to  a  dead  certainty.  Now  1  am  going  to  sec  that 
house  the  very  first  opportunity.  Sir  Peter  gravely  affirms  that 
he  has  heard  the  sights  an^l  seen  the  sounds — no — I  don't 
mean  that — the  other  way — ?'/V<r  vgrsa^ 

*'  My  opinion  is,"  said  Sir  Peter's  wife,  "that  Sir  Peter  is  in 
a  very  bad  way,  and  thai  we  shall  be  taking  out  a  decree  oi 
lunacy  against  him  one  of  those  days.  Sir  Peter  may  not  abso- 
lutely be  mad,  but  in  the  elegantly  allegorical  language  of  the 
day,  his  head's  not  level." 

"  What  is  that  about  Sir  Peter  ?  "  inquired  the  earl  saunterinf 
up.  "  Mad  is  he,  Ginevra?  'Pon  my  life  I  always  thought  so 
since  he  committed  his  crowning  folly  of  marrying  you.  Pray, 
what  has  he  done  lately  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more  than  the  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Ruys* 
land  has  done  before  him — talked  of  seeing  ghosts.  He  takei 
Miss  Herncastle,  the  governess,  for  a  ghost.  So  did  you.  Now, 
Uncle  Raoul,  whose  ghost  did  you  take  her  for  ?  " 

She  shot  her  words  back  spitefully  enough.  The  ^arl's  littlo 
satirical  jests  were  apt  to  be  biting  sometimes.  She  looked  al 
him  as  she  asked  the  question,  but  my  lord's  countenance  nevei 
changed.  Like  Talleyrand,  if  you  had  kicked  him  from  behind, 
his  face  would  not  show  it. 

"  Does  she  bear  dm  unearthly  resemblance  to  some  lovelj 
being,  loved  and  lost  half  a  century  ago,  my  lord  ?  Yot 
remember  she  gave  you  quite  a  start  the  day  of  her  arrival." 

"  I  remember,"  said  the  earl  placidly  ;  "  but  she  did  noJ 
disturb  me  very  greatl)  She  has  a  vague  sort  of  resemblance 
to  a  lady  dead  and  gone,  but  not  sufficient  to  send  me  into 
hysterics.  Queenie,  I'm  going  to  the  station — ^you  know  who 
comes  to-day  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa,"  constrainedly. 

**  If  you  are  going  inic  Castleford,  n  y  lord,"  said  Ginevra 
•*  I  have  two  or  three  coiimiissions  I  wish  you  would  execute 


r." 

of   i 
you 

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isem 
say* 

;  that 
s  thai 
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ree  ol 

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of  the 

iterinf 

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Pray, 

iuys- 
taket 
Now, 

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ked  af 

nevcf 

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Qaeenie,  where  are  you  going  ? — it  wiU  nut  detain  roc  an  i» 
itant." 

**  I  ain  going  to  the  nursery.  Lessons  arc  over  by  this  time 
and  Pearl  says  no  one  can  make  dolls'  dresses  vith  the  &kiU  1 
can." 

She  left  the  room.  Lady  Dar.gerfield  looked  after  her,  thefr 
•t  her  uncle,  with  a  malicious  snuls. 

"M  you  really  want  Cecil  to  marry  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  ali 
f»ar  finesse,  all  your  diplomacy  will  be  required.  1  fore&'^ 
thirty  thousand  trembling  in  th  *  balance.  She  is  inclined  to 
rebel — talks  about  being  sold  and  the  rest  of  it.  As  I  said  to 
henelf,  in  spite  of  her  admirable  bringing  up,  her  ideas  on  some 
■ubjects  are  in  a  deplorablv  crude  and  primitive  state." 

"  She  shall  marry  Sir  Arthur,"  the  earl  responded  serenely ; 
"it  is  written — it  is  destiny.  Her  ideas  have  nothing  whatevei 
to  do  with  it ;  and  if  there  be  any  point  of  worldly  hardnesi 
and  polish  which  Lady  Ruth  may  have  omitted,  who  so  compe- 
tent as  you,  my  dear  Ginevra,  to  teach  it  ?  I  am  at  peace — 
my  only  child  is  in  safe  hands.  Write  out  your  list  quickly,  my 
dear.     I  shall  be  late  as  it  is." 

His  niece  laughed,  but  her  eyes  flashed  a  little.  It  was  dia- 
mond cut  diamond  always  between  the  worldly  uncle  and  quite 
as  worldly  niece,  and  yet  in  their  secret  hearts  they  liked  each 
other,  and  suited  each  other  well. 

Lady  Cecil  reached  the  school-room.  Lessons  were  just 
ended,  and  Miss  Herncastle  stood  looking  wearily  out  of  the 
window  at  the  mellow  afternoon  radiance — fagged  and  pale 
Lady  Cecil  glanced  at  her  compassionately. 

'*  You  look  wearied  to  death.  Miss  Herncastle ;  1  am  afraid 
you  find  the  Misses  Dalrymp'e  terrible  little  Neros  in  pinafoie^. 
uo  go  out  for  a  walk,  and  Pearl  and  Parsy  and  I  will  go  an^ 
•iress  dolls  under  the  trees." 

"But,  Lady  Dangerfield— " 

*'  I^y  Dangerfield  is  in  the  drawng-room  ;  you  can  ask  hef 
il  you  choose — she  will  not  object.  1  am  sure  you  need  a 
walk.     Come,  children,  arid  fetch  your  whole  family  of  dolls." 

Miss  Herncastle  obtained  permission  to  take  a  walk,  and  set 
out  As  she  passf^d  down  the  noble  arching  avenue  she  espied 
the  earVs  daughtei  and  the  twins  solemnly  seated  under  a  big 
beech,  sewing  for  'iieir  lives.  Lady  Cecil  looked  up,  smiled, 
and  nodded  approval  from  her  work.  Very  W)vrly  she  looked; 
the  ainber  sunshine  shifting  down  through  the  ^v^iti.  And  rub) 
)f9.vc«  on  her  loose-floating;,  abundant  bro',\Ti  ha.ir,  fUshing  back 


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\m  J 

6«M  ^t  olher  amber  sunshine  in  her  hazel  eyes,  from  th« 
sweet  smiling  lips,  from  the  eau  de  nil  dress  with  its  innumer- 
able flounces  and  frillings,  its  point  lac*,*  collar,  and  cluny  bor 
derings.  In  thai  shinunering  robe,  and  with  a  long  spray  ol 
langled  ivy  buds  in  her  hair,  she  might  have  been  paiatcd  for 
Titania,  Queen  of  the  Fairies,  herself 

Beautiful  as  a  vision — the  belle  of  the  season — sought, 
tourted,  caressed,  beloved  by  all.  Did  the  contrast  strike 
MMober  Miss  Herncastle,  in  her  plain  brown  merino  dress,  ug)y 
of  texture,  of  color,  of  make,  walking  in  the  dust  as  she  went 
by  ?    The  after  days  told. 

The  high  red  sun  dropped  half  an  hour  lower.  The  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen  invited  for  my  lady's  lawn  party  would  be 
here  presently  now,  and  one  of  the  twins'  nine  dolls,  big  and 
little,  had  had  a  new  dress  finished.  Lady  Cecil  looked  up, 
and  said  she  must  go.  The  twins  pleaded  piteously  for  one 
game  of  "  tag,"  and  "  Aunt  Cecil "  consented.  The  dolls  were 
flung  down  in  an  ignominious  heap,  and  Lady  Cecil  flew  in  chase 
of  the  children  wit^.  a  zest,  that  for  the  moment  equaled  their 
own.  And  thus  it  was,  flushed,  breathless,  dishevelled,  laugh- 
ing, romping  like  a  girl  of  twelve.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  saw  her 
first 

The  earl  had  been  late — it  was  the  earl's  inevitable  fate  to 
be  late  on  every  occasion  in  life — and  the  great  Cornish  baronet 
had  driven  up  to  Scarswood  in  a  fly  like  any  ordinary  mortal. 
Through  a  break  in  the  beeches,  her  dear  sweet  laugh  rang 
out  as  the  twins  pounced  upon  her,  and  made  her  their  captive. 
All  aglow,  all  breathless,  she  came  full  upon  Sir  Arthur. 

He  was  laughing  from  sympathy  with  that  merry  peal.  If 
she  had  striven  for  a  thousand  years  to  bewitch  him  she  could 
never  have  succeeded  half  so  well  as  in  this  moment,  when  she 
was  not  thinking  of  him  at  all.  She  stopped  short — still  laugh* 
ing,  blushing  and  aghast. 

**  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  I  believe  ?  " 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  stood  bareheaded  before  her — tall, 
toble,  gravely  smiling,  as  Lady  Cecil  gave  him  her  hand. 

"Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  I  am  sure.  Did  you  not  meet- 
Pansy,  be  quiei — did  you  not  meet  papa  ?  He  left  here  to  go 
to  the  station." 

'<  I  did  not  meet  hm  Probably  I  passed  him,  for  I  felt  thi 
station  immediately." 

"  Then  permit  me  to  welcome  you  in  his  stead.  Ah  I  kesf 
ii  papa  now,  and  Major  Frankland/' 


1/ 


•»  ONCE   MORE    THE   GA  TE  BhUISD  MR   FALLX/* 


255 


1  thf 
iner 
bor 
ay  ol 
dfor 

ughi, 

Bthko 

uldhe 
g  and 
:d  up, 
dx  one 
s  were 
k  chase 
d  their 
laugh- 
aw  her 

fate  to 
laronel 
ortal. 
h  rang 

active. 

il.  If 
could 

I  en  shf 
laugh> 


-tall, 
i. 
ne«t— 

to  go 

left  thf 
I  Wii 


111 


A  ictor.d  flv  '.Irove  tip,  and  for  ihe  first  and  last  time  in  hei 
life,  I>ady  Cecil  Clive  was  ^lad  to  see  Afajor  Krankland  It 
w%M  a  rare — a  very  rare  thing — for  Im  Reine  Blatuhi,  trained 
into  perfoct  hij^h  bred  self-|)ossession  bv  three  Ix)n<ion  season^ 
to  feel  a  touch  of  embarrassment  in  the  presence  of  any  one 
king  or  kaiser,  but  she  felt  it  now. 

"  My  utfar  boy — my  dear  Arthur  I  "  The  earl  sprang  <ni! 
and  shook  the  young  baronet's  hand  with  eftHsion.  Such  i 
wntreiemfs  —just  a  moment  too  late — J  saw  you  drive  oi^  and 
I  returned  with  Frankland.  Major  /"rankiand,  of  the  — tli 
lancers — Sir  Arthur  Tregenna." 

The  two  gentlemen  lifted  their  hats,  ftir  Arthur  rather  stiffly, 
and  under  restraint — the  gallant,  wn'.dkered  major  with  that 
charsiing  ease  and  grace  which  had  years  a^  won  away  Ginevra 
Dangerheld's  heart. 

"  Aw,  my  dear  Lady  Cecil — chawmed  to  see  you  again,  an() 
looking  S0  well — so  7>ery  w;j11  ;  but  then  we  all  know,  to  oui 
cost,  La  Reine  Blanche  invariably  looks  her  best  on  every  oc- 
casion. And  here  comes  our  chawming  hostess.  Aw,  I^ady 
Dangerfield,  so  happy  to  meet  you  once  more.  London  ha» 
been  a  perfect  desert — a  howling  aw — wilderness,  I  assure  you. 
since  two  of  its  fairest  llowers  have  ceased-aw — to  bloom  I " 

And  then  the  mistress  of  Scarswood  was  greeting  and  wel 
coming  her  ^ests,  and  the  first  detachment  of  the  lawn  party 
began  to  arrive,  and  in  the  bustle  Lady  Cecil  made  good  her 
escape. 

The  travelers  were  shown  to  their  rooms.  She  heard  them 
go  past — heard  the  major's  aggravating  half  lisp,  half  drawl.  Sir 
Arthur's  deep,  grave  tones,  and  clenched  one  little  hand  where 
it  lay  on  the  window  sill,  and  set  her  scarlet  lips  hard. 

*'The  sultan  has  come,  and  his  slave  must  wait  until  it  pleasei 
hsm  to  throw  the  handkerchief.  He  comes  here  to  inspect  nw 
as  he  might  a  horse,  or  a  house  he  wanted  to  buy;  and  if  I  wk 
him,  I  am  to  be  bought.  If  I  do  not — Oh,  papa  1  papa !  hoir 
could  vou  subject  me  to  so  shameful  an  ordeal  ?  " 

An  imperious  tap  at  the  door,  an  imperious  voice  without : 

"  Queenie  1  Queenie  !  are  you  dead  ?     Open  the  door." 

Lady  Cecil  opened.  My  lady,  all  summery  muslin,  Val- 
enciennes lace,  and  yellow  roses,  appeared,  her  black  eyei 
aligHt  );er  cheeks  glowing  with  pleasure  and  liquid  rouge. 

"  Come,  Queenie  ;  you  are  to  be  on  the  opposite  side — fiist 
T«d,  and  all  that.  Every  one  has  come,  and  Sir  Arthur  and  thf 
wator  are  on  the  rroauf^t  i^roiiDfl.     Kfally,  Cecil,  Sir  Arthiu 


i 


ml' 

V't.'  ^ 


i    ■ 


*r'i!l 


Ifj 


Uh'  !  I 


I! 


1- 

(I- 


ago  *'otf'Cfi  Mofih   iHh  a^rr.  behind  me  falls.** 

Uin't  bad  looking-  that  is  lo  bay,  ii  he  were  iioi  beside  Jatpet 
CompariiOP*  arc  odious,  and  beside  him — " 

'Of  course  beside  him,  the  Angel  Oahricl,  if  he  were  to  dc 
•cend,  would  a|)|)ear  to  disadvantage.  (linevra,  Sir  Ai^tKii: 
looks  as  if  he  had  common-sense,  at  least ;  more  th.an  I  car  tit 
for  your  pet  military  poodle.  Poor  little  Pjijou  !  if  he  onlt 
kai,?w  what  a  dangerous'  rival  has  come  to  oust  him." 

"Don't  be  sarcastic,  Queenic,"  her  cousin  answeied,  witi 
perfect  good  temper  ;  "ii's  the  worst  thing  car.  possibly  l)c  sa!(^ 
of  a  girl.  Makes  men  afraid  of  her,  you  know.  You  may  take 
Sir  Arthur  on  your  side  ;  the  major,  ot  course,  ir.  on  mine  ;  and 
wc  shall  croquet  you  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  He  plays  as  h<5 
does  everything- — exquisitely." 

They  descended  together  to  the  croquet  ground — an  adiuii 
able  foil — blonde  and  brunctt^i.     Lady  Dangei  field  knew  it,  and 
ma<le  the  most  of  it,  as  she  did  everything  else. 

Sir  Arthur  did  not  play.  He  took  a  seat  with  the  earl  on  the 
limit  of  the  croquet  ground,  and  talked  and  watched  the  players. 
The  major  and  Lady  Dangertield  played  a  vigorous  game,  send 
ing  their  adversaries'  balls  to  the  farthest  limits  of  s]>ace,  and 
never  missing  a  hoop.  Lady  Cecil  played  abonu'nably  ;  hei 
side  vas  beaten  ingloriously  in  every  game.  How  could  she 
play? — how  could  she  do  anything,  knowing,  feeling,  tha-t  the 
eyes  of  Sir  Arthur  were  upon  her,  while  he  calmly  deliberated 
whether  or  no  she  were  fitted  to  be  his  wife. 

Lady  Cecil  was  right.  Sir  Arthur's  eyes  were  upon  her,  and 
Sir  Arthur  was  speculating  as  to  whether  or  no  she  was  fitted 
to  be  his  wife.  What  a  fair,  sweet,  proud  (nca  it  was  ;  how 
much  soul  in  t^he  softly  lustrous  eyes;  how  much  gentleness, 
goodness,  about  the  perfect  lips.  How  like  a  bright,  haj)py 
child  she  had  looked  as  he  had  seen  her  first  with  brown  hair 
flying,  brown  eyes  dancing,  rose  lips  laughing,  and  pearl  cheekj 
»jftly  flushed,  in  that  bewitching  game  of  romps.  Could  any  one 
who  looked  like  that — who  loved  little  children  and  played  with 
Ihem,  a  very  child  herself,  be  the  cold-blooded  coquette,  the 
rain  flirt,  who  trampled  on  hearts  wholesale,  ft)r  her  selfish  grati* 
cation  ?  No,  no,  a  hundred  times  no  !  Such  a  face  must  mir- 
ror a  pure  and  spotless  soul  ;  eyes  like  these  took  their  kind- 
ness and  their  sweetness  from  a  jjentle  and  womanly  heart. 

"  Her  loveliness  makes  men  her  cai)tives.  How  can  she  ht 
blamed  for  that  ?  "  he  thougni.  He  was  beginning  to  plead  for 
her  already  ;  the  si>eH  of  that  "  angel  face."  which  had  ensnared 
i»  many,  wae  beginning  to  throw  its  glamour  ovei  him.     And 


I 


zs.** 


^aifCR  MOAE   THE   GATE  BEHIND  ME  fAXJLS:*    26 i 


Jatpef 
:  to  de 
car  6*5 

xi,  will 

lay  take 
le ;  and 


ys 


as  h« 


1  adinii 
w  it,  an<^ 

rl  on  the 

players, 
lie,  send 
ace,  and 
bly;  hei 
ould  she 

tha-t  the 
liberated 

her,  and 
l^as  titted 
as  ;  how 
j^tlenesfe, 
t,  happy 
>wn  hair 
.rl  cheeks 
any  one 
.ycd  with 
|iette,  the 
f)sh  grati- 
iiust  mir- 
eir  kind- 
eart. 

.n  she  bu 

plead  feu 

ensnared 

1.     An^ 


tic  t»^9  predisposed  to  be  pleased.     He  wanted  to  rulhJl  hii 
father's  d>'ing  wish  and  marry  his  old  friend's  daughter. 

Lady  Cecil's  party  experienced  a  third  disastrous  defeat,  and 
by  that  time  the  sununer  dusk  had  fallen,  and  the  countless  stari 
were  out.  Then  one  (;f  the  young  ladies  from  the  rectory — ■ 
young  ladies  from  the  rectory  are  always  useful — went  into  tha 
house  and  played  some  delicious  German  waltzes,  the  music 
boating  from  four  high  windows,  open  from  tloor  to  ceiling. 
laAy  Ce<'Jl  waltzed  with  the  rector's  tall  son,  with  Stjuire  Tal- 
bot fro'H  Morecambe,  with  Major  Frankland  even,  when  that 
fip'endid  officer  at  last  left  his  liege  lady's  side.  \{  slie  had 
Dever  flirted  before,  she  flirted  with  Sir  Arthur's  eyes  upon  her. 

"  He  shall  take  me  for  what  I  am  if  he  takes  me  at  all,"  sh« 
thought.     *'  1  shall  never  play  the  hypocrite  to  entrap  him." 

What  did  Sir  Arthur  think,  sitting  there,  looking  on  with 
grave  eyes?  He  did  not  dance,  he  did  not  croquet,  he  didn't 
talk  much  ;  he  was  not  in  any  way  a  cari>et  knight,  or  an  orna- 
ment uf  society.  Frivolous  people  like  I^ady  Dangerhekl  were 
apt  to  be  afraid  of  him.  Those  calm,  passionless  gray  eyes 
looked  at  you  with  so  earnest  a  light  that  you  were  apt  to 
shrink  under  them,  feeling  what  a  foolish,  empty-headed  sort  of 
person  you  were — a  man  to  be  respected,  beyond  doubt — a 
man  not  so  easily  to  be  hked. 

What  did  he  think  ?  Under  the  stars  she  looked  very  lovely, 
and  loveliness  in  woman  covereth  a  nrultitude  of  sins.  She 
waltzed  with  them  all,  and  Sir  Arthur  was  one  of  those  uncivi- 
lized beings  you  meet  now  and  then  who  do  not  like  waltzing 
Vour  bride-elect  in  the  anns  of  another  man,  even  though  it 
be  in  a  round  dance,  is  to  your  ill-trained  mind  a  jarring  and 
indelicate  sight.  She  waltzed  until  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her 
eyes  shone  like  brown  diamonds,  and  her  clear,  soft  voice  and 
laugh  rang  out  for  all.  What  did  he  think  ?  The  earl  frowned 
inwardly — only  inwardly  ;  anything  so  disfiguring  as  a  frowu 
never  really  appeared  upon  his  placid,  well-trained  face. 
**  Wrinkles  came  soon  enough  of  themselves,"  he  was  wont  to 
say  ;  **  no  need  to  hasten  them  on  scowling  at  a  world  you  can- 
not improve." 

There  came  a  call,  '*  supper,"  and  the  waltzing  cded.  The 
dancers  paired  oflf  and  defiled  into  the  supper  room. 

•'The  tocsin  of  the  soul,  the  dinner  bell,"  laughed  Ladj 
Cecil ;  "  and  what  with  three  games  of  croquet  and  four  wali^^j 
>^  a»n  both  hungry  and  fatigued." 

Aftd  thcD  the  rector's  tall,  hand^jorne  son — ^  'Varsity  mai)-.' 


i^ 


SOMETHING    VERY  STRANGE. 


'\  i- 


th«t  flirtiflg  manner  some  young  men  cultivate,  said  some* 
thing  in  a  whisper  that  looked  tender,  however  it  might  sound. 
Sir  Arthur's  gray  eyes  saw  it  all.  Was  this  flirting  ?  — n'as  /41 
Jftine  Blanche  at  her  favorite  game  ? 

They  went  into  the  brilliantly  lighted  dining  room,  wherf'  aifl 
Aberdeen  salmon,  d.  la  mayonaisf,  lay  re]K)sing  tranmiilly  in  a 
bed  of  greenery  and  prawns,  where  lobster  salad,  an<?  cold 
chicken,  and  pine-apple  cream,  and  Mosclie  and  strawbeirieSj 
iooked  like  an  epicurean  picture  under  softly  abundant  gasalieri 

l^y  Cecil  still  ke[)l  her  victim,  the  tall,  slim  college  man 
by  her  side,  and  they  devr)ted  thenselves  to  one  another  very 
eiiclusively.  They  were  probably  discoursing  the  rival  meritfl 
uf  salmon  and  lobster  salad,  but  they  looked  as  if  they  were 
gently  murmuring, 

"  How  Is  it  under  otw  cuorro} 
To  love  or  «u(  to  lovr  7  " 


.i  ■  I ; 


\i  1.; 


Sir  Arthur  had  the  post  of  honor  on  the  right  of  his  hostess 
— Major  Frankland  supported  her  on  the  left.  Sir  Peter  was 
not  present— he  sat  solitary  and  alone  in  his  study,  like  an  oyster 
in  its  shell,  \^hile  feasting  and  merry  making  went  on  around 
him.  And  when  tiie  great  urmolu  jirid  malacliite  clock  over 
the  mantel  struck  the  half  hrnir  after  eleven,  the  comj)any  di?- 
pe.  bed,  and  the  guests  sournt  their  own  rooms.  What  did  Sir 
Arthur  think,  as  he  bade  the  earl's  fair  daughter  good-night,  and 
watdicd  her  float  away  in  her  eau  de  nil  dress  up  the  stairs  and 
disappear  in  a  silvery  shower  of  moonrays  ?  That  impassive 
free  of  his  gaye  no  sign. 


CHAPTER   VI. 


90MSTKING   VSRY   STXANGK. 


ni 


ND  your  picnic  is  inevitable,  I  suppose.  Lady  Dai3ger< 

field ;  and  cne  musl  go  and  grill  alive,  and  yawn  aU 
day,  and  get  one's  complexion  destroyed  with  tne  boil- 
ing seaside  sun,  and  call  it  pleasure.     You  mean  w'-'l\ 

Ginevra,  I  dare  say,  but  your  ceaseless  pleasure  excursions  grow 

CO  be  ceaseless  bor<^s.' 
Ladv  Cecil  said  ail  this  in  the  slowest,  softnt,  slccyiest,  lazi- 


I 


some' 
ound. 
-as  lA 

eff  an 
\y  in  a 
[*  col^ 

e  man 

;t  very 

ineritf 

ly  were 


hostess 
;ter  waia 
n  oystei 
around 
ck  over 
,any  cH;?- 
di(i  Sir 
ht,  and 
airs  and 


)ai}ger< 
lawn  a\i 
InelKiil- 
Ian  w  '-'IV 
]nsgro« 


SOMETHING    VER  Y  STRAffOB, 


a&l 


Mt  pMdMe  tone  of  voice.  She  was  lying  on  a  scfa,  in  a  loote, 
irhite  morning  robe,  her  bronze  hair  all  damp,  and  loose, 
and  out  of  curl,  a  book  in  her  hand,  and  her  gold -brown  eye* 
fill!  of  lazy  languor. 

Lady  Dangerfield,  got  up  in  elaborate  v/alking  costume.  b?.:l 
i«st  bustled  in — she  always  bustled  L'nd  nade  a  noise—  and  hav* 
barst  forth  in  a  torrent  of  reproaches  r.t  finding  her  nidolsfj 
cousin  still  in  a  state  of  semi-undress. 

"  You  laziestj  you  most  indolent  of  mort.ils  !  get  up  instant!) 
and  be  off  and  dress.  The  carriages  will  be  here  in  half  an 
hour — twenty  rninutes  f  tell  yon — and  you  haven't  one  thing 
on.  The  picnic  is  inevitable,  and  seeing  you  were  one  of  the 
(irst  to  organize  it,  I  think  it  is  a  little  too  disgraceful  to  find 
you  like  this  at  the  last  moment.*' 

"  Like  this  is  so  very  comfortable  tho\igh,  GinevrJ^.  My 
novel  is  really  interesting.  Countess  .^glac,  on  the  eve  of  her 
marriage  with  the  Duke  of  Crowndianionds,  runs  away  with  a 
charming  young  hcad-groonj,  who;;e  ordinary  conversation  reads 
like  blank  verse.  Well  if  1  inu'=^t  I  nvast,  1  suppose."  She 
threw  asid-^  her  novel  and  arose.  "  It  is  so  preposterously  fine 
and  sunshiny  this  morning,  that  1  urn  certain  we  will  have  a 
storm  before  night,  and  come  home  drenched.  Half  an  hour 
did  you  say,  Ginevra,  before  we  start  ?  Tranquillize  your  nerves 
then,  dear — I  shall  be  ready  in  half  the  time." 

A  week  had  passed  since  the  afternoon  of  Sir  Arthur's  and 
Major  Frankland's  arrival,  and  a  very  animated  week  it  had 
been.  Lady  Dangerfield  never  gr^w  weary  in  well-doing  ;  hei 
fertile  brain  originated  pleasure  parly  aflcr  pleasure  party,  witl* 
an  assiduity  woriiiy  a  bettcM  cause.  Tr.ere  had  been  long  ex- 
cursions to  ruins,  there  had  beet;  a  •jay's  visit  to  a  distant  gypsy 
encampment,  there  had  been  ic..wn  billiards,  boating  parties, 
croquet,  and  drives  and  gallops  to  every  inleresiing  spot  for 
sffliles  around.  There  had  been  Fortnum  &  Mason's  hampers^ 
diickens  and  champagne,  pates  de  Jois  gras^  and  claret  cu[),  en 
Laid  and  sea,  and  now  a  genuine  old-fashioned  picnic  to  the 
seashore  was  under  way  ;  Fv)rtnum  &  Mason  were  voted  a 
nuisance  ;  they  would  boil  dieir  own  kettle  on  the  sands,  and 
n^ake  their  own  tea,  true  gypsy  style,  dispense  with  tht  tall  gen- 
tleman in  plush  and  prize  calves  from  the  Httll,  and  wait  uix)* 
Ihemgelves.  My  lady,  ever  on  the  alert  for  something  mrip.', 
proix>scd  this,  and  had  been  warmly  seconded  on  all  sides. 

A  week  had  passed  since  Sir  Artiiur's  arrival — seven  lor,^ 
aumtuer  days  and  nights  under  tiie  same  roof  with  Lady  Cecil! 


I  1 


%  : 


2^4 


SOMETHING    VERY  STRANGE. 


the  gre&test  Itirt  of  the  season.  Wliat  did  he  think  of  h«  by 
this  tiwe  ?  No  one  could  have  told  ;  not  the  young  laxly,  cer- 
tainly, to  whom  his  manner  was  calm,  friendly,  and  genial,  but 
as  far  removed  from  her  exi>erience  of  love-making,  as  it  wa* 
posaible  to  imagine.  Not  her  father,  watching  him,  furtively, 
ijM}jatiently ;  he  bore  himself  towards  her  with  the  satne  distant^ 
i-i'iiiewhat  stiflf  courtesy  he  showed  his  hostess  and  the  oti\«y 
kckes  who  visited  Scars  wood. 

How  was  It  going  to  end  ?  Would  he  propose,  oi  would  he, 
<irfter  another  week  or  so,  say,  "Good-by,  Lady  Cecil,"  in  the 
laine  cool,  grave,  unsmiling  way  in  whicn  he  now  said  good- 
morning  and  good-night  f  It  was  such  an  inscnUable  face,  that 
face  of  his,  that  it  told  nothing.  This  solemn,  uplrfled  msjmer, 
those  grave  tones  speaking  grave  sentences,  nnght  be  I?;*  way 
'>f  making  love,  for  all  the  earl  knew. 

For  Cecil  herself,  she  liked  it,  and  liked  him  all  the  better  for 
letting  her  so  tranquilly  alone.  All  women — the  most  hardened 
coquette  among  them — like  men  best  who  don't  lower  their  flag 
at  once.  She  was  bewitchmgly  ]>retty,  and  fresh  and  bright, 
and  knew  it  beyond  doubt ;  but  as  far  as  she  could  sec,  all  her 
beauty,  znd  brightness,  and  fa.^cinations  were  so  many  arrows 
that  glanced  off  his  polished  chain-mail  armor.  She  was  singu 
larly  free  from  vanity ;  in  a  calm  way  slie  was  conscious  of  her 
own  great  beauty,  as  she  was  i/roud  of  her  old  name,  but  the 
Bmallness  oi  personal  conceit  she  had  never  telt.  And  reas- 
sured by  Sir  Arthur's  mariner,  sf""*  let  herself  grow  friendly,  and 
pleasant,  and  familiar,  as  it  was  in  her  genial  nature  to  be.  She 
got  down  off  her  stilts,  and  walked  with  him,  and  talked  with 
him,  and  found,  when  properly  virawn  out,  he  could  talk  well. 
He  could  tell  her,  by  tlie  hour  t0f,etlier,  of  fair,  foreign  lantdsj 
of  the  East — every  inch  of  which  ht;  knew — every  i^acrcd  place 
of  which  he  had  visited.  He  could  tell  her  of  Ai.straiia  and  it* 
wonderful  hidden  wealth — of  bright,  busy,  trans-Atlantic  citic? 
— of  California,  where  he  had  lived  for  months  among  cai«pi 
and  mines,  and  the  reckless  men,  the  sweepings  of  the  woild, 
who  fly  there  for  safety  or  for  gold. 

He  told  her  of  Algiers,  where  he  had  wintered  last  year,  and 
of  how  narrowly  his  life  had  been  saved.  He  had  had  many 
hair-breadth  escapes,  but  none  so  critical  as  this.  Lost  on  the 
liesert,  a  flock  of  wild  Bedouins,  inliamed  with  rapine  and  liqu.^ 
bii  swept  down  upon  hun  wi*li  shrill  cries.  He  fought  agaiii;,! 
tfsrrible  odds  as  long  a,i  he  could,  then,  jnst  as  a  lance  hea-'  h?  .\ 
pifrrcrd  i»iiU;  a  horseman  had  ridden  down  '^^w  tjic  w,:;!.  Aii.i  y-.j 


hei  Yjf 
ly,  cer- 

\a\j  but 
it  wa» 
itively, 
distant^ 
e  oth«r 

)uld  he, 
in  the 

1  good 
ce,  that 

hi*  way 

itter  for 
irdened 
leir  flag 
brigiit, 
,  all  her 
f  arrows 
.s  singu 
s  of  her 
mt  the 
id  rcas- 
ly,  ar.d 
pe.    She 
d  with 
Ik  well. 
larvlSi 
d  place 
and  its 
[C  cities 
I  campi 

WOild, 


:c 


n 


b 


ear,  and 

d  niasiy 
t  on  tiie 
1  iiqii;>-. 
agaJ  J  Si.! 


SOJ>££Tmx.^    VL.xi'i    ^^A^A^GE, 


aoi 


a  ringiog  Engiisli  cheer  had  !ai('  :.\;k-)\\\  hmi,  ni,ln  -.Nd  'c'",  1f5K>  a 
Bon.  Wherever  that  flashing  bl.ide  fell,  an  Arab  bit  Oie  dTst. 
Then,  faint  and  sick  from  loss  of  blood,  he  reeled  ftom  th<j 
saddle,  and  opened  his  eyes  in  his  own  quarters  in  Aij/ic.'rs. 

"And  the  gallant  Englishman  who  saved  you  ?  '  !>ad)  C'ut 
breathlessly  asked. 

Sir  Arthur  smiled. 

"The  gallant  EngUshman  was  an  Irishman.  A  very  tigei  fc 
ftlght  His  name  among  the  Arabs  was  as  great  a  source  H 
dread  as  that  of  Coeur  de  Lion  to  the  Saracens,  or  Hlack  Dou^^ 
las  to  the  Lowland.  He  was  a  captain  of  Chasseurs,  h's  nan  jo, 
CDonnell." 

She  was  sitting  beneath  the  open  window.  As  he  pronouncci! 
the  name  he  looked  at  her,  Lut  she  liad  turned  suddenly  and 
ras  gazing  steadfastly  at  the  blue  summer  sky.  He  looked  at 
her,  then  spoke  again,  slowly. 

"  And  he  knew  you^'  he  said. 

"Yes,"  Lady  Cecil's  tones  had  changed  a  little;  but  she 
tttified  now,  and  the  brown  eyes  met  the  gray  ones  quite  cal.nly. 
'Yes,  I  did  once  know  a  Redmond  O'Donnell— six  years  ago, 
I  think — in  Ireland.     He  mentioned  knowing  me,  did  he?" 

"By  the  merest  char. ce.  In  his  qiir.rters  one  day  I  came 
across  a  book,  a  very  handsome  copy  of  '  Marmion,'  with  your 
name  on  the  Sy-leaf  You  had  lent  it  to  him,  it  appeared,  and 
it  had  never  been  returned." 

"Captain  O'Donnell  seems  fated  to  save  people's  lives,"  said 
Lady  Cecil,  laughing ;  **  he  saved  mine  from  drowning.  Did 
he  tell  you  of  it  ?  No  ?  That  is  like  his  reticence.  Are  you 
aware  he  is  in  England  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  am  not  surprised  to  hear  it,  diough.     He  nieniioned 

"  casually  meaning  X  j  go  out  to  America — to  Ne>v  Orleans — for 

^  sister,  and  fetrn  her  over,  and  leave  her  witl^  their  friends  in 

France.     A  ftne  fellow — a  brave  fellov/ — a  worthy  descendant 

of  his  once  princely  house." 

Lady  Cecil  said  nothing,  but  that  night  at  i><uting  she  gave 
Sir  Arthur  her  hand  with  a  kindly  cordiality  she  had  never  s^own 
before. 

"  He  grows  on  one,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  to  her  cousin. 
**  I  begin  to  like  him." 

Ginevra  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  So  mwch  the  better,  iear,  for  all  concei  oswi  Thirty  thou* 
msA  a  year  is  a  powerful  inducement,  1  mrst  confess  ;  though 
be  doesn't  ^it>w  on   mr.      He's  a  pri;^,  as  I  said  before — a  scl 

IS 


■ 


SOMRTniNG    VEKV  SJJtANGE, 


'i:-'r,i; 


■i^  'm 


:•■:!:  i 


w  .  s 


m 


w\ 


Gvan  pediBtic  prig — who  gloweis  one  out  of  countenatace 
few  great,  solemn,  owl  eyes,  and  who  can  neither  dance  nof 
pUy  croqaet,  who  doesn't  know  one  game  on  the  cards,  and 
who  invariably  treads  on  one's  train.  I  hate  clumsy  men,  umI 
I'm  afraid  I  shall  hate  my  future  cousin-in-law." 

The  solemn,  owl  eyes  l^ady  Dangeriield  spoke  of  irritated 
"her  beyond  measure  by  the  way  in  which  they  watched  her  an* 
Imated  flirtation  with  Major  Frankland.  A  flirting  married 
iroman  was  an  anomaly  the  tall  Cornish  baronet  could  in  no 
wise  understand.  On  this  point  he  was  more  savagely  unciv- 
ilized than  even  l-.ady  Cecil  herself.  His  dark  eyes  looked  in 
grave  wonder  and  disapprobation  at  what  went  on  before  them 
-  Major  Frankland  making  love  d.  la  n>cde  to  Lady  Danger- 
field,  while  Lady  Dangerfield's  husband  either  shut  himself  up 
in  his  study  with  his  friends,  the  black  beetles,  or  else  glared  in 
impotent  jealous  wrath  at  his  wife  and  her  attendant  cavalier. 

He  and  \aAy  Cecil  had  grown  friends  surtly  and  impercep. 
tibly.  They  were  a  great  deal  together,  and  the  noble  brow  oi 
my  Earl  of  Ruysland  began  to  clear.  Cecil  knew  what  she 
was  about,  of  course  ;  she  wasn't  going  to  fall  at  his  feet  the 
instant  he  arrived  ;  if  he  were  a  true  ki.lght  he  would  be  willing 
to  woo  and  win  so  fair  a  lady.  With  her  chairaing  face  to 
plead  her  cause,  his  charming  fortune  to  plead  his,  there  could 
be  no  manner  of  doubt  as  to  the  issue. 

Sir  Arthur,  Lady  Cecil,  the  earl,  and  a  young  lady  in  apple* 
green  muslin  went  together  in  the  barouche.  Lady  Danger- 
field  drove  Major  Frankland  in  her  pony  phaeton.  The  rest 
of  the  young  ladies  follov;ed  in  a  second  barouche,  wi(h  two 
cavaliers  on  horseback.  Tlie  only  married  lady  of  the  party 
being  the  baronet's  wife — who  played  chaperone  and  propri- 
ety !  Sir  Peter  had  discovered  a  new  specimen  of  the  Saturinm 
Pav<mia  Major,  and  did  not  go. 

It  was  an  intensely  hot  day,  the  sun  pouring  down  its  fiei^ 
heat  from  a  sky  as  deeply  blue  as  that  of  Italy — the  heat  quiv 
ering  in  a  white  mist  over  the  sea.  Not  a  breath  of  air  stirrc<l  f 
the  sea  lay  asleep,  one  vast  polished  lake,  under  that  globe  dt 
eaoltcn  gold. 

'*  I  knew  we  would  grill  to  death — I  said  so/'  Lady  Cecl 
remarked  ;  "  but  where  is  the  use  of  warning  Ginevra  when 
she  is  bent  upon  anything.  The  three  children  survived  th« 
Fiety  Fiimace,  and  we  may  survive  this,  but  I  doubt  it." 

"Don't  be  so  plaintive,  Queenie,"  her  father  interposed; 
it  you'll  suivive,  1  dare  say,  but  you  won't  have  a  shred  oi  com- 


Ceci 

when 
d  tho 


roi»< 


S^MBThlNii    VERY  STttAlTGM. 


267 


■iodon  left  Vou  blende  women  never  can  stand  sunshine. 
Noir  CHnevra  is  the  happy  i)ussessor  of  a  complexion  whick 
all  the  suns  of  Equatorial  Africa  couldn't  darken  or  f/^aHL 
Seeing,"  this  fotte  voce,  "that  it's  made  up  of  Blatu  de  Perk 
and  liquid  rouge." 

"  It  is  warm,"  Sir  Arthur  remarked,  looking  ?.t  the  fair  lily 
/tee  beside  him  ;  *'  and  there  is  not  a  tree,  nor  a  shrub  even,  t9 
nsxd  it  ofL  Suppose  we  go  in  search  of  verdure  and  shade,  «i 
ire  used  to  do  in  the  Great  Desert.  My  traveler's  instinct 
tells  me  there  is  an  oasis  not  far  off." 

"  Yes ;  go  by  all  means,  Queenie,"  murmured  the  earl ; 
**and  when  you  have  found  that  oasis  send  me  back  woid,  and 
Kll  join  you.  At  present  I  am  reduced  to  tliat  state  in  which 
a  man's  brain  feels  like  melted  butter,  and  each  limb  several 
tons  weight.  I  shall  lie  down  here  on  the  sand  and  compose 
myself  to  balmy  slumber." 

Sir  Arthur  proffered  his  arm — Lady  Cecil  took  it.  The  pic- 
nic party  were  pretty  well  dispersed  by  this  time.  Ginevra 
and  the  major  and  one  of  the  rector's  daughters  had  put  off  t3 
sea  in  a  little  boat ;  Squire  Talbot  was  making  himself  agreea- 
ble to  the  young  lady  in  apple-green  muslin  ;  the  rest  ha^i'l 
pafred  off  like  the  pr(x:ession  of  animals  in  a  child's  Noah' 5 
Ark.  As  well  go  on  an  exploring  expedition  with  Sir  Arthur 
as  remain  there  to  watch  the  slumbers  of  the  author  of  her  be  ■ 
ing;  and  so  the  Cornish  baronet  and  the  earl's  daughtcv 
started  in  search  of  the  oasis. 

It  was  not  unpleasant  being  alone  with  Sir  Arthur.     In  com 
pany,  as  a  rule,  he  had  nothing  whatever  to  say  ;  society  small 
talk  was  as  Greek  to  him  ;  the  new  styles,  the  latest  fashiona 
ble  novel,  the  last  pri.ma  donna  or  danseuse — all  these  topicv 
were  Sanscrit  to  him,  or  thereabout.     But  alone  with  an  appre- 
ciative listener,  he  could  talk,  and  talk  well — not  of  his  travel* 
alone—  on  all  subjects.     He  spoke   of  things  high  above  thi 
7each  of  most  of  the  men  she  had  met,  and  Lady  Cecil  being  a 
jroung  lady  of  very  fair  intellect,  as  the  female  intellect  goes, 
appreciated  him,  was  interested,  delighted,  quite  breathless  in- 
deed in  her  absorption  at  times. 

They  had  gone  on  now  for  nearly  a  mile — very  slowly,  oi 
course,  with  the  mid-day  thermometer  at  that  ridiculous  height 
in  the  shade,  where  shade  there  v/as  none.  He  was  telling  hei 
of  a  frightful  gorilla  Imnt  he  had  once  had  in  Africa,  and  just  at 
Ae  moment  when    the  cliraa;:  was  reached  when   the  {(orilia 


'•v. 


■  K, 
.E. 


1^ 


ft64 


SOMETJUNU    yjiAi    JlJiANGE, 


il  I 


caaic  in  sight,  and  l>ady  Cecil's  cyfs  ami  li|\«i  wete  ftpait,  if«ki 
bxeathl'!«js,  he  slopi)<»cl  as  if  he  had  heen  shot. 

"  L«dy  Cecil,"  he  cried,  "  it  is  going  to  rain."  Patter  !  one 
great  dropj,  the  size  of  a  pea,  fell  splash  on  Lady  Cecil's  startled, 
upturned  face.  The  s'ln  still  shone  dazzlingly,  but  a  huge 
\lttcV  thunder  cloud  had  gathered  over  their  heads,  threateni'r.g 
^.itant  explosion. 

Plump  caine  anothe;  great  ckop  on  Lady  Cecil's  pink  silk 
#fC*d  white  lace  parasol.  Oh,  such  a  flimsy  shield  from  a  raiii 
•torm,  and  Lady  Cecil's  ,'*aris  hat  had  cost  ten  guiner^s'  only 
tibe  week  before  ^nd  T.rd}  Cecil's  sumn^^r  diess  was  of  Swisu 
?»!uslin  aid  UcC;  av^d  htx  ( ronze  slippers  with  their  gay  rosettes, 
dklightful  for  &y  s.ui  •;  a^-d  sunshine,  but  not  to  be  thought  oi 
i»  connection  with  .>.  iumrs^  r  shower. 

•'  What  shall  we  do  ?  "  she  ejj^laimcd.  *•  I  don't  mind  get- 
ting my  death  of  cold  in  a  drenching,  but  to  go  back  and  face 
(he  rest,  sheltered,  no  doubt,  by  the  carriages, — all  drippi;.g 
and  drowned — no.  Sir  Arthur,  I  can't  Jo  that." 

Sir  Arthur  had  been  scanning  the  horizon  with  eagle  glance. 

**  I  see  a  house,"  he  said  ;  "  at  least  1  see  a  tall  chimney, 
and  where  there  is  a  chimney  there  must  be  shelter.  Let  ua 
make  for  it.  Lady  Cecil — we  can  reach  i^  in  five  minutes,  if  n^e 
run.     Can  you  run  ?  " 

'*  Certainly  I  can  run."  answered  Zu  Rfine  Blanche.  "  W{\',\\ 
a  question  for  y&u  to  ask,  of  all  people,  as  though  you  didn't 
stand  and  laugh  at  me  the  afteinoon  you  arrived,  romping  like 
a  lunatic  with  Ginevra's  children.  Oh,  dear !  how  fast  the 
drops  are  coming.  Now,  then,  vSir  Arthur — a  fair  field  and  no 
fevor I " 

And  then,  with  her  clear,  /uerry  laugh,  the  haughty,  hand- 
■cmrie  belle  of  last  season  gathered  up  her  flowing,  flimsy  skirts, 
bowed  her  b'ight  head,  and  sped  away  like  a  deer  before  the 
norm.  Sir  /irthur  ran,  too  )  one  may  be  never  so  dignified, 
tkiA  yet  scamper  for  their  11' es  before  a  thunder  storm.  And 
I  idy  Cecil  laughed,  and  Sir  Arthur  laughed,  and  faster,  faster, 
8i«ttT,  fell  the  light  black  drops,  and  twenty  years  of  ordinary 
acquaintance  could  not  have  brought  them  so  near  together  as 
that  hour.  On  and  on,  faster  and  yet  faster,  the  rain  pursuing 
them  like  an  avenging  fury,  a  great  i)eal  of  thunder  booniing 
above  their  heads.  Blacker  and  bigger  that  great  cloud  grows  \ 
patter,  patter,  falls  the  rain  ;  it  will  be  down  in  torrents  di- 
rectly. There  ig  a  flash  blindingly  brigiit,  and  then — Heaves 
ke  pr«i?ed  \ — l-he  tall  chimney  1-5  reachc  J.  ^r.d  it  proves  to  l>5  3 


mvM 


hand- 

I  skirts, 

\re  the 

lified, 

And 

Ifastetf 

linary 

ler  as 

rsiiing 

pniing 

rows ; 

Its  di- 

?avea 

1»5  U 


SOMRTW^fG    VERY  SIRANQB. 


S69 


g^;.  ''•■onie  place,  ai 
-'  ofv.  Heavens  t  Sir 


tVMue  I  Sir  Arthur  flings  wide  ihe  gate,  and  t!iey  skuriy  *nt« 
the  ^;ai>ien,  thickly  sheltered  by  fir-trees,  and  pause  at  lost,  wet, 
panting  breathlessly,  laughing,  and  iook  into  each  other's  flvishe^ 
facet. 

'*!  kr^^w  I  conid  beat  you.  Sir  Arthur,"  is  the  first  thttg 
I^j  Cecil  says,  as  w^ll  as  she  can  for  her  throbbing  \maa% 
I  eats.  "Oh,  what  &  race!  And  my  poor  parasol,  am!  ra| 
knrely  hat — spoi!?d!  I  can't  see  anything  to  laugh  at,  Sit 
Arthu*^ — i^  wms  a  beauty,  though  you  mayn't  have  had  soul 
ei^ou^a  to  appreciate  it.     And  my  slippers — see  I  " 

She  held  out  one  slim  foot — oh,  Queenie,  was  it  coquetry  > 
— and  the  beautiful  bronze  slippers,  the  gay  little  rosettes,  were 
mined.  "  And  your  feet  are  wt;t,"  Sir  Arthur  exclaimed ; 
'*  that  is  worst  of  all.  And  there  is  danger  ur  '•  r  these  trees,  in 
thk  lightning.  We  must  make  for  ihe  house  '^vTiat  place  is 
this?" 

"  I  don't  know.  A  most  dismal  and 
least  Good  gracious !  what  a  flash  ;  arL  i 
Arthur,  did  jrou  see  that  ?  " 

She  gave  a  little  scream  and  caught  hi       r 

He  followed  her  eye — to  the  front  wim-  lows  of  the  house — 
just  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  cf  a  woman's  face  as  she  pulled 
some  one  hastily  away  from  the  panes. 

*''  Tliat  woman  !  do  you  know  her  ?  "  he  arJced. 

But  Lad|r  Cecil  stood  like  one  struck  dumb,  gazing  with  aU 
her  ej/es. 

"  Do  you  know  her  ?  "  he  repeated  in  surprise. 

"  It  is — it  is — it  is — Miss  Hemcastle  ! " 

*'  Well,  and  who  is  Miss  Herncastle  ?  [.v>«f  she  lite 
here  ?  " 

"Live  here?"  She  looked  at  him.  "It  is  Ginevra'i 
governess.  And  that  other  face  -that  awful,  gibbcr'.^i^,  moutii- 
mg  face  she  drew^  away.  Ugh  1  "  slie  shuddered  and  drc*i 
closer  to  him.  "You  did  not  look  in  ti?ne  to  see  it,  but — ol 
all  the  woeful,  unearthly  face?, — and  then  Miss  ilerncastle 
came  and  dragged  it  away.  Now  what  in  the  wide  world 
brings  her  hrre  ?  " 

"Suppose  we  go  up  to  the  house  and  investigate.  Are  yo® 
aware  you  are  growing  wetter  ever>'  instant  P  Now,  Lady 
Cecil,  another  race." 

They  fled  through  the  rain — corning  down  m  bu'ikels  full  by 
%s»  time — to  the  house,  and  into  the  lov;  sione  porch.  Clash 
we'*^  SUr  Arthur's  thnnder  od  th*-*  r  Anrls.      Th'»  door  pi*»?d«l  tfl 


< ; 

■i 


If 


# 


11   \ 


mi 

m 


mm 
Si; 


VfO 


S0MB2JJJNG    VEkY  S2HANQE. 


■\';\ 


that  tremendoiis  knock  and  dew  open,  and  they  stootl  (ace  !• 
iice  with  a  tall,  gaunt,  grim  old  woman. 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  the  baronet  said  ;  "  I  dida't 
mean  to  force  an  entrance  in  this  way.  \ye  got  caught  in  the 
utonn,  and  fled  here  for  shelter.  WiU  you  i>ennit  this  lady  to 
enter?" 

"As  you've  bust  the  door  o\H:n  a' ready,  I  supi>ose  you  may,  * 
fetorted  the  old  woman,  in  no  very  hospitable  tone,  and  cas? 
ingnovery  hospitable  glsnce  on  the  two  intruders.     "  Come  is 
If  you  like,  and  sit  down." 

She  pointed  to  a  couple  of  wooden  chairs,  then  went  out  of 
Ihe  room,  and  upstairs.  And  then  there  came  from  down 
those  stairs  a  long,  low,  wailing  cry,  so  wild,  so  unearthly,  so 
full  of  infinite  nusery,  that  Lady  Cecil,  with  a  second  cry  of 
alarm,  caught  hold  of  the  baronet's  arm  and  looked  at  him  with 
terrified  eyes. 

"  Did  you  hear  that  ?  "  she  gasped. 

Yes,  Sir  Arthur  had  heard  it — rather  discomposed  himself. 
He  held  her  hand  and  listened.  Would  that  weird  cry  be  re- 
newed ?  No ;  a  heavy  door  slammed  above,  then  perfect  si- 
lence fell. 

"  Let  us  leave  this  horrid  house  and  that  harsh-looking  old 
woman,"  exclaimed  Lady  Cecil.  "  I  believe  the  place,  what- 
ever else  it  may  be,  is  uncanny.  Of  two  evils  I  prefer  the 
rain." 

"The  rain  is  by  no  means  the  lesser  evil  of  the  two.  I  fear 
I  must  be  arbitrary,  my  dear  Lady  Cecil,  and  insist  upon  your 
remaining  at  least  ten  minutes  longer.  By  that  time  the  light- 
luing  and  rain  will  have  ceased.  That  was  a  strange  cry — it 
sounded  like  one  in  great  pain." 

The  door  re-opened  and  the  old  woman  re-entered.  She 
glanced  suspiciously  at  the  lady  and  gentleman  seated  by  the 
rnndow. 

"  I  hope  my  raven  didn't  frighten  the  young  lady,"  she  said ; 
"•  he  do  scream  out  most  uneaithly.  That  was  him  you  hearc) 
Jfust  now." 

She  looked  at  them  again,  as  though  to  see  whether  this 
ftatement  was  too  much  for  their  credulity. 

Sir  Arthur  smiled. 

**  It  did  startle  us  a  little,  1  confess.  Your  raves  hs«  • 
most  hi£ubriou3  voice,  my  good  woman.  Will  you  tell  sg  tki 
B&me  of  this  place  ?  " 

"It  be  Erackeo  Hollow." 


■i.l5: 


the 


ght- 
-it 

She 
the 


this 


tibi 


**  fimdwn  Hollow,"  l^Ay  Cecil  reptau-d  the  nar 
■MTO  startled  voice. 

i 

She  had  het  wish  then  sooti*  r  than  she  had  e>.^i>ected-  «he 
in  Sir  Peter's  haunter^  house. 

"Ay,  your  ladyship,  Bracken  Hollow,  a  main  and  lonetM>Ri« 
place — main  and  lonesonie.  V^  will  have  heard  of  it,  maybe. 
Ye're  from  the  Park  beyond  now,  I'll  lay  ?" 

"Yes,  we're  from  the  Park.  Do  you  live  here  in  this  lonely 
place  quite  by  yourself  ?  " 

"Not  quite,  your  ladyship  ;  alone  most  of  the  time,  but  odd 
days  a  yonng  voman  from  the  town  comes  to  help  me  redd  up. 
Ye  will  h*»v  seen  her,  mayhap,  at  the  uj)per  window  as  ye  came 
In?" 

Again  she  looked  searchingly,  anxiously,  it  seemed  to  the 
baronet.     He  hastened  kindly  to  reassure  her. 

"  We  did  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  face  for  a  second  at  one  of  the 
upper  windows.  I  suppose  you  are  rarely  intruded  upon  here 
as  we  intruded  upon  you  just  now  ?  " 

"Ay,  rarely,  rarely.  1  mind  onre" — she  rocked  herself  to 
and  fro  and  looked  dreamil)^  before  hd?r — "  I  mind  just  once 
afore  a  young  coui^le  got  ketched  in  the  rain  as  ye  did,  and 
came  here  shelter.  That  was  six  years  ago — six  long  years  a^o 
— and  there's  been  many  sad  and  heavy  changes  since  the.i. 
He  was  rare  an'  handsome  that  day,  and  she — oh,  it's  a  queci 
world — a  queer  world." 

"Lady  Cecil,  the  rain  has  ceased  —1  think  we  may  venture 
forth  now.  Good  Jay  to  you,  .madame,  and  thanks  for  thf 
shelter  your  roof  has  afforded," 

He  laid  a  sovereign  in  her  skmny  hand.  She  arose,  droppe< 
inm  a  ciutsey  and  watched  Inin  out  of  sight. 

"  A  fine  gentleman  and  tree  with  his  money,  and  she — ah, 
it  s  a  beautifulface,  and  it's  ?  proud  face,  but  there's  alwayj 
trouble  in  store  for  them  as  carries  dit*ir  heads  so  high,  and 
tiiem  haughty  eyes  always  pheds  inost  te*i5,  \  fins  gentleosar 
ax]d  a  beautiful  lady,  but  thwe'A  t«^ouUe  fv.  iitnre  w  they  - 
Otrobici  trouble" 


III!      ! 


CHArrits  viL 


) 


Mi 


:i'."'  ' 


'■'! 


"TVIRB    f»    WAUrr   A    SLIP,"    BIT, 

KDY  C EC  n  ;S  wet  feet  were  considcrablj  wcttei  Mkv« 
she  reached  the  picnic  party  on  the  sand.  Bot  therv 
was  DO  help  for  it,  and  shv.  laughed  good-natiir«*dly  ?," 
all  Sir  Arthur's  nnvions  prtMlirtions  of  future  Uildn 

'•  ^f ishaps  and  niisadvemn'-es,  rain-storms  and  general  do 
tiioiaiization  of  one's  niiinenl.  are  what  one  inevitably  expectt 
At  picnics.  It  is  in  the  nature  ul  ihiugs  for  lightning  storms  to 
copie  up  in  the  midst  ()f  all  i>liasurc  excursions.  1  wonder  \i 
the  carnages  safely  proterted  those  we  left  behind ;  and  above 
all,  1  hope  Ginevra  and  h«?r  party  were  not  out  fn  that  fairy 
bark  of  theirs  when  the  scinall  arose." 

But  they  were.  Two  hours  had  elapsed  between  Sir  Arthur 
tnd  l^dy  Cecil  Kavitsg  the  [>!easure  party  and  their  return, 
and  during  those  two  hours  ilire  misfortunes  hatl  befalk  a.  The 
whole  picnic  party  wire  assenil»le<1  m  one  excited  group  as  the 
two  wanderers  came  up  in  tlieir  uudst—  ih(^  major,  Lady  Dan- 
gertield,  and  the  rector's  daughter,  (hipping  from  head  to  f<.>ot 
uke  a  triad  of  sea  deities.     Lady  Cecil  gave  a  gasp. 

"Sir  Arthur  !  Look  here  !  the  boat  has  upset !" 

ITie  boat  had.  Lady  Dangerfield,  excitedly  and  eloquently 
poured  out  the  tale  of  their  hair-breadth  escape  as  thiey  ap- 
proached. 

They  were  a  mile-and-a-half  or  thereabouts  from  the  shore 
when  the  tif^vnder-stonn  had  so  swiftly  arisen,  and  they  had 
turned  and  put  back  at  once.  But  bef  re  they  had  gcr-«;  ten 
yards,  either  Orving  to  the  major's  mismanagement,  or  the  Gud- 
den  striking  of  the  squall,  away  went  the  little  boat,  keel  v.p- 
pcmcst,  and  down  into  the  ruflled  sea,  with  ringing  shrieks  of 
^vShght.  went  the  two  ladies  and  Ibeir  military  protector.  Thfi 
major  could  swim — so  could  Mi?«^  Mallan,  the  rectofr  f.taugV 
tei.  Flinging  one  arm  about  Lndy  DnngerfieM  the  maj«' 
^TDck  o\it  for  the  shore,  b^  a.i\  awful  pauic  had  seized  iktt 
bj9JOii«f«  wife;  soiden  death  stau;!  hci  m  iht  face,  arid  til 
presesice  of  mind  leserted  her.  She  :-^».-'jgglcd  m  the  niajor'i 
njAsp,  .'linging  ro  him  the  while,  arr!  ':.h7-'>'-;i  i;  fr^nt:ra!^r  Fi 
/ain  UMe  lanaior  ipipiored  and  entrtatpd.  "  For  Hea,Tcn's  aak^, 
Ginevia,  W  scili  and  I  will  savo  vcm."      Ju  vau*  th<r  anVigV-tr-d 


•*  THEKL    /^    MANY  A    Sir/','*    HTC 


^;j 


shore 

had 

:  ten 

Gud- 

\  lip- 

ks  of 

The. 

I  til 
ijoi'i 


party  vn  the  shore,  forgt'ihil  of  rain  now  descending  in  fiood» 
•dded  their  shouted  i>ray«rrb  to  h».Ts.  fii  vaiii  I  lady  Danger* 
field  screamed  and  t)tru^>{K:d,  aiid  die  {>ii.:ntc  \iiiS\>  wan  in  a  fail 
way  i>l  winding  up  wit)i  a  daj^cd),  when  a  hual  kkimir  j;^  hkt 
8.  bud  over  the  dancing  waters,  and  bkiiltnlly  handled  by  <m# 
Koaxi,  shot  tow;ir(i  tlu'in,  swilt  and  s'rai^ht  ;is  an  ariow. 

"  Hold  on  there,"  a  voice  t'roMi  tht.-  hoat  shouted-  *•  YotiTl 
fx  M.wn  to  a  dt^dd  iertaiut)  if  you  plunge  about  like  that  nuK/ 
lontfer." 

The  boat  flew  nearer.  The  man  leaned  over  and  picked  up 
my  lady.     Major  Frankhind  sen  r;ibled  in  after. 

'*  Rather  a  close  fini'>h  '  "  their  t'eliverer  said,  coolly.  "  You 
were  doing  your  best  lo  make  ihe  boiiurii.  Are  you  ail  right, 
there,  sir  ?  lAH)k  atier  liie  lady,  wili  you  f  1  think  she  i»  go- 
ing to  Caint" 

Kut  l.axly  Dangeificdd  did  not  faint — too  much  cold  water, 
perhaps.  »She  glanced  at  her  preserver,  and  noticed,  even  in 
that  moment,  that  he  was  one  of  the  very  hand^^omest  men  u 
had  ever  been  her  good  fortune  to  luthold.  She  glanced  al 
l.crself  Good  Heaven  !  half  llie  excjuisite  abunda;ice  of  curls 
and  braids  she  had  s<jI  forth  with  tlul  morning  were  miles  out 
at  aea,  her  complexion  was  a  wretched  ruin,  and  her  lovely 
pink  grenadine,  in  which  she  had  looked  Tiotaday  over  twenty 
6ve  one  short  hour  ago— that  pink  grenadine,  all  puffings,  ami 
friliiags,  and  flounces — no,  words  are  poor  and  weak  to  de 
scribe  the  state  of  that  drei^s. 

The  boat,  flying  before  the  rising  wind,  made  the  shoic  in 
five  minutes.  I^ady  Dangerfield  had  not  spoken  one  woid  ; 
tears  of  ahame  and  mortitication  were  standing  in  her  eyes. 
Why,  oh,  why,  had  she  evei  come  on  this  wretched  iri))— ihii 
miaerable  picnicj  at  all  ?  What  business  had  Major  KrankUnd 
to  propose  going  out  in  a  lx>at  ■when  he  wasn't  capi.ble  oi 
handling  a  boat  ?  What  a  fright  she  must  look—  hatless,  hair- 
iest, comparatively  complexionless,  and  hei  bright,  gos£aji.er 
sumroei  skirtB  clinging  about  her  like  wet  leeches?  Whai 
must  this  remarkably  good-looking  and  self-possessed  gentle- 
man sittiog  yonder  steering,  think  of  her  i*  He  was  not  think- 
ing of  her  at  all ;  he  was  watching,  vrith  an  amused  face.  Mios 
Hallan  cakuly  and  deliberately  swinu)iing  aahoie,  uiud  all  the 
other  i>eople  standing  hkc  martyrs  in  the  rain. 

"  Now,  tken,  madam  I "  He  sprang  out  and  itlinost  lifted. 
Kcr  on  the  saadft.  "  V^ery  sorry  for  your  wilshap,  s,  \d  if  I  nn^n 
peeatJfflie  to  ofEer   a  suggestion,  would   recont* acrid   an  iv.stant 


I 


^'  1 


274 


••  THERE   IS  MANY  A   SUf,*"   ETC, 


'i 


!  '  .M 


.1 


:,.-3 


i!':.;  i 


i  I 


M. 


Si 


f  ■ 


I.       1 


retnm  home  and  a  ch  mge  cf  garmew^i.     Good-day,  sir  ;  fo«a 
boaf  t  all  right — floating  ashore." 

And  then  this  cool  gentleman,  \vithx)ut  waiting  for  tnancs  oi 
fiirther  ado,  pu?:hed  off  again,  and  skimmed  away  like  a  seagull 

Such  aplii^ht  as  tbis  pleasure  party  stood  in  when  Sir  Arthui 
»nd  Lady  Cecil  rejoined  them  '  W?t  througn,  all  their  6n«5 
feathers  spoiled — s^en'  one  of  the  ladies  in  as  miserable  i 
plight  as  the  shipwiecked  party  themselves — every  one 
tireached  to  the  skin.  Lady  Cecirs  dark  eyes,  full  of  sup- 
pressed fun,  were  lifted  to  the  baronet's  ;  there  was  a  grave 
BJirile  even  at  the  corners  of  his  sedate  mouth.  It  was  won- 
derful how  they  understood  each  other,  ano  how  much  nearei 
they  were  then  than  they  liad  been  that  morning. 

Of  course  the  picnic  broke  up  in  most  "admired  disorder" 
ttr.d  at  once.  The  wet  mermaids  were  packed  damp  and 
dripping  into  the  carriages  and  whirled  away  to  Scarswood  as 
fast  as  the  horses  could  trot  the  distance,  Lady  Dangerfield  be- 
wailing her  fate,  her  narrow  escape  for  her  life,  and  anon  won* 
drring  who  her  preserver  could  be. 

"  He  had  the  air  of  a  military  man,"  she  said  ;  "  there  was 
no  mistaking  it ;  and  he  was  bronzed  and  bearded,  and  some- 
what foreign-looking.  A  gentleman,  beyond  a  shadow  of  a 
doubt,  with  a  bow  of  a  Lord  Chesterfield  or  a  court  chambei* 
Sain,  and  the  whitest  teeth  I  ever  saw." 

It  was  evident  Major  Frankland  had  a  rival 

"  I  wish  I  had  asked  his  name,  and  invited  him  to  call,"  my 
lady  went  on.  "  Common  courtesy  required  it,  but  really  I 
was  so  confused  and  frightened,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  that  1 
thought  of  nothing.  Abominable  in  jasper  IVankland  to  let 
the  boat  upset  I'll  never  forgive  hir.i.  \Vhat  could  that  stran- 
ger have  thought  of  me — such  a  honible  fright  as  I  must  look.'' 

*'  My  dear  Ginevra,  does  il  matter  what  this  stranger  thinks  ? 

We  are  all  grateful  to  h.ini  for  corning  to  youi  rescue  so  oppor 

\ine!y,  but  as  to  his  good  opinion,  1  don't  perceive  that  thai 

a  matter  of  consequence  one  way  or  the  other." 

"One  doesn't  want  to  look  like  a  scarecrow,"  returned  hci 

adyship,  indignantly,  "  even  before  strangers  ;  and  he  was  a 

difiiuigu?  ihed  looking,  and  had  the  finest  eyes,  Queenie.     Per- 

tuipa  he  may  be  one  of  the  officers  from  the  Castleford  bar- 

ncks." 

"  1  thought  we  had  had  all  the  officers  from  the  Cahtlaford, 
&nd  if  any  of  them  are  eininen>ily  di-sunguifihcd-iooki/ig,  1  hav  s 
h»thert(0  failed  to  perceive  it" 


••  THERE  IS  MAi\Y  A   SLIPr   ETC, 


e  was 

some- 

of  SI 

ibei* 


my 

illy  I 

[hat  1 

lo  let 

jtrarj- 

Inks  } 

thai 

he  I 

Per 
bar 

[ford, 

hav3 


375 


**Wc  might  have  had  ..im  over  for  our  theatricals  u>roorrow 
sight,  if  I  had  only  had  presrmce  ot'  mind  enough  to  ask  his 
name.  But  how  can  one  have  presence  of  mind  when  one  is 
drowning?  And  to  lose  my  hat  and  luy — njy  chignor,  and 
everything !  Queenie,  how  is  it  that  you  have  esca|)ed  so  conv 
pletely  ?     Where  did  Sir  Arthur  take  you  ?  *' 

"To  Bracken  Hollow.  We  were  caught  in  the  first  of  t!.* 
Rtorm,  and  had  to  run  for  it.  Such  a  race  I  Even  Sir  Arthssj 
Tregenna,  the  most  dignified  of  mankind,  does  not  look  digni- 
fied, scampering  away  from  a  rain-stonn." 

Lady  Cecil  laughed  maliciously.  "It  does  people  good  to 
came  down  off  their  stilts  once  in  a  while,  and  put  their  high 
And — mightiness  in  their  pocket.  Really,  it  has  been  a  day  oi 
<ir>ttraordinary  adventures  aUogethe!," 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Dangerfield  crossly  ;  "and  adventures aic 
aHich  nicer  to  read  of  than  to  take  i:>art  in.  I  don't  want  ad- 
v*>atures  out  of  Mudie's  select  novels." 

"  A  day  of  adventures,"  went  on  1  .ady  Cecil,  laughing.  "  You 
get  upset  in  the  midst  of  the  raging  oceaji,  lightning  Hashing, 
th'jnder  crashing,  rain  falling — and  whnt  rhymes  to  fiilling,  Cin- 
e»ra,  besides  bawling?  And  at  the  last  moment,  up  nishes  tl;e 
gallant  knight  to  the  rescue,  handsome,  of  course,  gentlemanly 
also,  military  likewise,  and  with  the  bow  of — a  court  chamber- 
lain,  I  think  you  si?id  ?  And  for  rne,  my  knight  takes  me  hito 
the  Haunted  Castle,  and  we  hear  and  .see  the  ghost  of  Bracken 
Hollow." 

"  Oh,  Sir  Arthur  is  yoiu-  knight  then,  is  he  ?  "  interrupted  her 
ladyship  sarcastically.  "  1  thought  it  would  come  to  that  in  the 
end  We  don't  refuse  thirty  thousand  a  year,  do  we,  QueenLsj 
darling,  in  spite  of  all  our  fine  poetical,  cynical  talk  of  buying 
and  selling.     And  what  Bracken  Hollow  ?     A  ad  what  ghost  ?  " 

**  What  Bracken  Hollow  !  There's  only  one,  and  your  hus- 
band says  it's  haunted.  1  suppose  he  ought  to  know  ;  he  seems 
m  authority  on  the  subject  of  goblins  and  ghosts.  Of  my  own 
tnowledge,  I  caa  say  it  is  as  dismal  and  dull  a  looking  place  as 
ever  I  laid  eyes  on — in  the  words  of  the  poet,  *  A  lonesome 
kxige  that  stands  so  low  in  lonely  glen.'  And  a  grim  and  som- 
ber old  woman — a  sort  of  Sussex  *  Noma  of  the  Fitful  Head ' — 
presides  over  it  And  at  an  upper  window  we  saw  a  most 
ghostly  face,  and  firom  an  upper  chamber  we  heard  a  most  ghostly 
cry.  *  Noma  of  tne  Fitful  Head '  accounted  for  it  in  some  way 
%^  wt  a  raven  and  a  country  girl ;  bui  1  ^ion't  think  she  expected 
0    vO  b^eve  it    Aj>d  then  I  am  sore-  -cel^ain — I  saw — " 


bi  ;■',, 


276 


•*  THERE  IS  MANY  A   SLIP,''  ETC, 


vm 


M 


m 


But  Lady  Cecil  paused.  Wliy  should  she  create  an  uri^  lea» 
antness  between  the  governess  and  T.ady  Dangerfield  by  telling 
fA  seeing  hfr  there  ?  That  there  waf.  no  mistake  she  was  con- 
viDced.  Miss  Herncastle's  was  not  a  tacc  to  be  mistaken  any- 
where—not at  all  the  sort  of  face  we  mean  when  wc  say  *'it 
will  pass  in  a  crowd."  Most  people  in  any  crowd  would  havts 
turned  to  look  twice  at  the  very  striking  face  of  mj  'ady*8 
liursery  governess. 

Lady  Cecil  went  up  to  her  room  at  once,  and  rang  for  hei 
maid.  In  her  damp  dress  she  stood  before  the  open  windo\i 
while  she  waited,  and  looking  down  she  saw,  immediately  be- 
neath her,  in  the  rose  garden,  Miss  Herncastle  !  Miss  Hern- 
castle,  calm,  composed,  pale,  grave,  lady  like,  and  looking,  with 
her  neatly  arranged  dress  and  serene  manne-r,  as  though  she  had 
been  there  for  hours,  the  last  person  possible  to  be  guilty  of  any 
escapade  whatever.  She  looked  up,  smiled,  bowed,  turned 
slowly,  and  disappeared  down  a  lime  walk. 

Lady  Cecil  r^ood  translixed.  What  did  5r  mean  ?  Miss 
Herncastle  looked  a  very  clever  person,  but  she  was  not  clever 
enough,  surely,  to  be  in  two  places  ai  once  That  was  Mi^ti 
Herncastle  she  had  seen  at  Brackeji  Hollow  less  than  an  hour 
ago,  and  now  Miss  Herncastle  was  here  She  could  not  have 
walked  the  distance  in  the  time — she  could  not  have  lidden. 
And  if  it  wasn't  Miss  Herncastle,  who  then  was  it  she  had 
seen? 

**Oh,  nonsense!"  Lady  Cecil  cried,  tapping  her  slippered 
foot  impatiently.  "  I  know  better.  It  was  Miss  Herncastle. 
Desiree,"  to  her  maid  **  I  see  Miss  Herncastle  down  there. 
How  long  is  it  since  she  came  in  ?  " 

"Came  in,"  Desiree  repeated,  opening  her  brown  Frencl: 
eyes.  "But,  mademoiselle,  Mees  Herncastle  wasn't  out  at  all 
She  has  been  in  the  scho<3l-room  with  her  young  ladies." 

"  Are  you  sure,  Desir4e  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,"  Desiree  was  sure.  That  is — she  had 
t»«6n  in  the  sen'ants'  hall  herself,  and  not  in  the  grounds,  tmt  oi 
course  Miss  Herncastle — 

"  That  will  do,  Desiree.  You  pull  my  hair  when  you  brush 
and  talk  together.     Make  hai>te  I  '^ 

D&iir^  made  haste,  and  in  fresh  slippers  and  rosettes,  fresh 
•igfuidi:  and  ribbons,  I^dy  Cecil  tripped  away  to  the  school 
foom.  J:*earl  and  Paiisy  v;ere  tiiere,  making  houses  of  card&. 
Down  went  the  cardA.  and  tht?  twin^  surrounded  Aurr>  CtdJ 
immedute^. 


•(■.H 


■I 


lad 


tall 


THERE   IS  MANY  A   .9£//»"  ETC. 


37; 


**  Did  ihe  see  the  lightiiing — oh,  wasn't  it  awi'ul?  And  the 
dMmder — wasn't  she  frighten-  '  ?  They  were.  They  vent  up 
to  die  nursery  and  crept  int  ,d,  and  pulled  the  cloiLcs  6 vet 
dMr  laces — and  never  spoke  till  it  was  all  over." 

**  A  very  jmiiseworthy  precaution,  my  pets.  And  where,  all 
tfus  time,  was  Miss  Hemcastle  ?  " 

"Oh,  Miss  Hemcastle— poor  Miss  Hemcastle— had  su<\  a 
keaxlache,  and  had  to  go  to  bed,  and  they  were  so  glad.  Net 
ior  tile  headache,  of  course — they  were  sorry  for  poor  Misa 
Ilerncastle — but  glad  that  they  had  had  a  holiday.  And  that 
other  dress  for  Seraphina  " — Seraphina  was  the  biggest  of  the 
dolls — "  when  would  Aunt  Cecil  make  that  ?  " 

"To-morrow,  if  possible.  And  so  Miss  Hemcastle  had  a 
bad  headache  and  had  to  go  to  bed.  Hum-m  m.  When  did 
she  take  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  right  after  you  all  went  away.  And  she  went  up  to  her 
room  with  some  vinegar,  and  pulled  down  the  blinds,  and  locked 
the  door,  and  told  Mrs.  Butler  she  would  try  to  sleep  it  off. 
She  got  up  just  before  you  came  home — I  saw  her  come  out  of 
her  room  and  go  down  to  the  garden." 

The  door  opened  and  Miss  Hemcastle  came  in,  her  roses 
and  myrtle  in  her  hand.  She  bowed  to  Lady  Cecil  with  a  slight 
smile,  crossed  the  room  with  easy  grace,  and  placed  her  bouquet 
in  a  Parian  vase. 

"  I  regret  to  hear  you  have  been  suffering  from  a  severe  head- 
ache all  day,  Miss  Hemcastle,"  Lady  Cecil  said,  and  the  amber- 
dear  brown  eyes  fixed  themselves  full  u[X)n  the  face  of  the 
Bovemess.  "  Pansy  tells  me  you  have  been  lying  down  all  day. 
Bat  for  Ithat  I  should  positively  tliink  it  was  yaur  face  I  saw  at 
a  window  of  the  house  in  Bracken  Hollow." 

The  face  of  the  governess  turned  from  the  flowers  over 
which  she  was  bendirig — the  deep  gray  eyes  met  the  searchii^ 
browo  ones  steadily. 

**  Thought  you  saw  me^  Lady  Cecil !  How  very  strange 
4£L(^racj£en  Hollow-  where  is  Bracken  Hollow?" 

"Bracken  Hollow  is  within  easy  walking  distance  c/  Scars* 
VOod,  Miss  Hemcastle:  and  yo»i  are  fighc,  it  is  very  strange. 
I  was  positive  it  was  you  1  saw." 

^'  You  were  mistaken,  of  course,"  tlic  governess  said,  cahnly ; 
'**  it  seems  ray  (ate  to  be  mistaken.  I  had  a  headache,  as 
f^ansy  says,  and  was  obliged  to  go  to  my  room.  I  ant  unfortu- 
l»etd.f  sabject  to  bad  nervous  headaches." 

y^m  ^?  Mrsis  ijierfectlv  calm — not  a  treinaor,  not  a  ffiiK^  ol 


\ 

■'1  1 

^ 

P  '• 

1 

'  i 

■1 

lit]    1 

\ 

i 

■ 

l''**^! 


'''4H 


mm* 


Ii 


;i'^ 


^i| 


278 


THERE 


AfANV  A   SL/P,'     ETC 


«yc  or  muscle.  And  agaifi  Lady  Cecil  was  staggered.  S;trcly 
this  was  truth  or  most  perfect  acting.  If  Miss  Herncaatle  had 
Bpent  the  day  in  her  own  r(>oin  she  could  not  have  spent  it  at 
Bracken  Hollow.  And  if  it  were  not  Miss  Hemcastle  she  had 
Men,  who  on  earth  then  was  it  ? 

Thoi'oughly  mystified,  the  earl's  daughter  descended  the  stairs. 
Ib  the  vestibule  sal  the  hall  porter,  the  Casilefard  ChnmicU  ta 
his  hand,  his  g  ize  meditatively  ixed  on  the  rainbow  spanning 
the  sky. 

"  Johnson,  have  you  been  her'  all  day — all  day,  mind  ?  *^ 

Johnson  turned  from  the  rainbow  and  made  a  bow. 

'•  Yea,  my  lady — which  1  nieanter  say  my  lady  hexcepting  of 
corse  while  1  was  at  dinner — all  the  rest  of  the  day,  my  lady.'' 

"  And  did  any  one  leave  the  house  during  our  absence  ? — 
any  one — the  children — the  servants  ?  " 

"No,  my  lady,"  Mr.  Johnson  responded,  rather  suiprised, 
*•  not  that  /  see,  my  lady.  And  it  would  be  himpossible  for 
hanny  one  to  come,  without  my  seeing,  my  lady.  The  young 
ladies,  they  v/asn't  on  tlie  grounds  all  day,  my  lady,  likewise 
none  of  the  servants.  Mrs.  Butler  she  were  a-making  hup 
long  haccounts  in  her  hown  room,  and  Miss  'Erncastle  she  were 
a  layin'  down  with  the  'eadache,  my  lady.  And  there  wem't  no 
callers,  my  lady." 

I>ady  Cecil  turned  away  with  a  dazed  look.  She  had  no 
i^ish  to  play  tl»e  spy  upon  Miss  f lerncastle.  If  she  h<ui  been 
to  Bracken  Hollow,  and  hcid  owned  to  it,  Lady  Cecil  might 
have  wondered  a  little,  but  she  would  have  said  nothing  about 
it  She  said  nothing  about  it  as  it  was,  but  she  puzzled  over 
tt  all  the  evening.  The  picnic  party,  rejuvenated,  dined  at 
Scarswood  Sir  Peter  left  the  Saturnia  Favcnia,  and  dined 
with  his  guests — ray  lad/s  rather  ;  and  my  lady  herself,  ir  fresh 
raven  ringlets,  fresh  bloom,  and  fresh  robe  of  gold-colored 
IJssue  and  white  roses,  looked  as  pretty  and  as  animated  as 
duragh  ten  pounds'  sterling  worth  of  tresses  had  not  drifted  out 
t^  sea,  and  a  lovely  new  toilet  had  been  utterly  ruined. 

"  I  wish  I  had  thought  of  asking  him  his  name,"  Lady  Dan- 
ger&eld  remarked,  over  and  over  again,  returning  to  tlie  Un- 
known. *'  A  gentleman,  I  am  positive — there  is  no  mistaking 
ik'tP.  aj  </  M>ciety ;  and  an  officer  ;  I  should  know  a  trooper  in 
Ite  palpit  or  in  his  coffin,  there  is  no  mistaking  their  swing. 
Asiu'f  he  hao  the  n?<>st  e  repressive  eyes  I  think  I  ever  saw." 

"'  Vwur  'j.ioj*;.-  observation  does  him  much  lionor,"  said  Majoi 
Ff^t^Mclarxt  with  supT>^*«««ard  ^r^Umsy.     '*  He  is,  in  aU  prohaHl 


I    ■ 


jlored 

ted  as 
td  out 

Dan- 

Un- 

ting 

;r  in 

^wing. 

tbai>il 


-  THERE    TS  MAS  f  A   S.LIP;'    ETC, 


275 


thr,  fome  wandering  tourist,  ur  artist  i:nknown  to  fame  and 
TrafiiJgAr  Square.  It  would  be  cruel,  1  siippo>->e,  \o  hint  at  his 
being  a  commercial  tr;ive!ler,  down  from  the  metrofwlis  with 
lUB  samples." 

"Gad  I  he  looked  like  tome  one  I've  met  before,"  muttered" 
Jhe  earl,  glancing  uneasily  at  his  daughter.  "//<?  was  in  Ijor, 
4l<)n  the  night  of  the  oi)era,  anti  it  is  just  possible  he  may  hav* 
followed  us  down  here.  Only  tiiai  it  would  noi  be  like  him— 
proud  as  Lucifer  he  used  to  b<' ;  and  tht:n  I  should  think,  too, 
be  had  got  over  the  old  madness.  Did  you  see  thi.*»  unkr«)wn 
knight-errant,  Queenie?" 

*•  1  ?  No,  papa ;  it  was  all  over  before  we  came  up.  The 
curtain  had  fallen  ori  the  grand  sensational  tableau,  the  hero 
^  the  piece  had  tied  ;  Sir  Arthur  and  I  were  only  in  time  for 
ttie  farce." 

The  earl  stroked  his  iron-gray  mustache,  reassurrd. 

"  If  it  be  O'Donnell,  and  'pen  my  life  I  think  it  is,  I  only 
hope  Sir  Arthur  may  sj)cak  boAor^  he  appears  again  on  the 
•cene.  Not  that  she  care.^  for  hins,  of  course,  or  that  his  ap 
pearance  will  make  any  difference  in  the  result.  It  was  only 
a  girl's,  only  a  chihl's  finry— -and  it  is  six  years  ago.  Wh^^ 
wotnaii  ever  remembered  an  absent  lover  six  years? — a  hus- 
band for  that  matter  ?  They  say  Penelope  did  ;  but  we  have 
only  their  word  for  it.  1  dare  say,  while  Ulysses  was  flirting 
on  that  island  with  Queeri  (Jalypso  and  Mi^  Eucharis,  she  was 
flirting  at  home,  and  looking  out  for  his  su<  ■  essor.  The  only 
mnpleasant  thing  about  it  will  be,  if  they  uiscover  th<!  little 
counterplot  /  indulged  in  at  that  time.  '  s  odd  Sir  Axthui 
ion't  propose.  He  i*-  gr^  aiiy  taken  with  h  r,  that  is  evident, 
Mid  though  she  doesn't  encourage  him,  sh-  i     Viendlv  e/M/ug^j." 

Sir  Arthu/  //////  <aken  with  her.  His  es  followed  that 
£urf,  gfracefuJ  /ig/z/e  */tffy where  ;  he  stv>o  y  the  piano  while? 
ihe  sang,  and  she  sa^--^  Ve/y  sweetly,  his 
Ace,  his  ear  drinking  in  the.7«  r/ilver  so 
«ase  with  her ;  he  talked  to  S\i?f  jy,  he  h 
/voman  in  his  life  ;  she  was  fair  yf/f  ^  ^ 
Why  should  he  not  make  her  his  i^A  f 
lower-face  of  her.s  had  wrought  dire  ha- 
tooHSusceptible  hearts,  was  she  to  be  blamed  ?  Sne  rnif'ht  r\(A 
be  cfaite  his  ideal,  perhaps — but  which  of  us  ever  meet  a  or 

cmrries  our  idesJ  ?- ::'u  \--7  ti'^ed  her  ver;  -'-"ll — very  -veil  an<j 

Mbure4  lv?r  greaiiy,     Vf  hy  not  sp'^ak,  tbeia.  and  ask  her  to  bo 
wife? 


on  the  peif^ 

s.     H'    "  ■    --■  *i.t 
rver  i.  -     .    ^    . 
lovely  4/i<^  ^/ 
If  that  tit'f'^yfAM 
eftf  now  witb  *^:A 


it 


^K'M 


'1 

",  y' 

;■;■ 

i 

!;t   ' 


a8o 


•'THBMtE   IS  MAl^Y  A   SUP»  ETC. 


ii    ' 


r'i, 


He  resolved  this  question  in  bed  that  night  until  he  fell 
aileep.  Of  love,  such  as  he  had  heard  of  and  read  of—  that 
intermittent  fever  of  cold  fits  and  hot  fits,  of  fear,  of  hope,  o1 
jealousy,  of  delight — he  knew  nothing.  That  mad  fever  into 
which  common-sense  never  enters  isn't  a  dignified  passion ;  -^ 
man  on  his  knees  to  a  woman,  calling  upon  all  the  gods  to  wit  res* 
how  he  worshiped  her,  is  not  an  elevating  or  majestic  si^hl, 
He  was  not  a  lover  of  the  usual  hot-headed,  hare-brained  sort, 
all  wearing  the  same  bright  armor,  all  singing  the  same  swee? 
■ong.  But  he  esteemed,  and  adinired,  and  liked  I.ady  Cecil. 
She  was  his  equal  in  every  way,  save  fortune,  and  that  he 
neither  thought  of  nor  cared  for,  and  the  very  next  day  that 
ever  shone  he  would  ask  her  to  be  his  wife. 

For  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  to  resolve  was  to  do.  He  was 
■one  of  your  vacillating  lovers,  who  don't  know  their  ov\ti 
minds,  and  who  are  afraid  to  speak  when  they  do.  Without 
being  in  the  least  a  coxcomb,  he  felt  pretty  sure  of  his  answer. 
Her  father  wished  it,  she  did  not  seem  at  least  to  dislike  him, 
and  as  husband  and  wife  they  would  learn  to  love  each  other, 
no  doubt,  very  dearly.  His  eyes  followed  her  that  day  a;>  they 
had  never  followed  her  before — with  a  new  interest,  a  new  ten- 
derae3s„  And  x^ady  Dangerfield's  sharp  black  eyes  saw  it  ao 
they  saw  everything. 

"  Thine  hour  has  come,  oh,  Queenie,"  she  laughed  mali- 
ciously. "  The  grand  mogul  has  made  up  his  mind  to  fling  his 
handkerchief  at  his  slave's  feet.  Look  your  loveliest  to-night, 
La  Reine  Blanche^  for  the  great  Cornish  baronet  is  going  to 
lay  his  tWe  and  fortune  at  your  feet." 

The  color  flashed  hotly  for  a  moment  over  the  exquisite. 
drooping  face — a  flush  of  pain,  of  almost  dread.  Her  woman's 
instmct  told  her  also,  as  well  as  Ginevra,  that  Ginevra  was 
fight  He  was  going  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  and  she — what 
should  she  say  ?  What  could  she  sav  but  yes  ?  It  was  her 
dettiny  as  fixed  as  the  stars.  A  sort  of  panic  seized  her.  Sht' 
tdid  not  love  him,  not  one  whit,  and  Lady  Cecil  Clive  at  two 
and  twenty--— old  enough  to  know  better,  certainly,  and  adFair- 
ably  trained  by  a  thorough  woman  of  the  woiid — a  w^jian  ot 
the  world  herself — out  three  seasons — believed  in  love  \ 

I  am  pained  to  tell,  but  the  tnith  stand'^ — she  believed  ii 
Jove.  She  read  De  Masset,  and  Meredith,  an'l  Tenr yscn-  -she 
even  read  Bjrron  sometimeR.  She  liked  him — as  f^  mii^.t  k, 
grave>  wise^  *«ry  much  eldej  brother,  bnl  love  hiiij- 

I 


"  THERE    IS   MANY  A   ^UP.**   ETC 


afti 


isite. 

iian'fl 
was 

Iwhat 
her 
Sh^ 
two 

at 

r(i  ii 
h.t  fc 


And  IttAy  Cecil  krv^w  what  love  meant.     One*,',  oh^  how 

lonff  ago  it  seemed  !  for  seven  golden  weeks  the  sun  had  shone, 
and  the  roses  flamed  in  the  light.  P'arth  had  been  Kden.  xful 
die  Someone  that  we  all  see  a  day  or  two  in  our  lit'etirne  had  iJ^K 
j»eared  before  her,  and  then — the  seven  weeks  ended,  and  Uii:  * 
dead  level  flowed  back.  That  dream  of  sweet  sixteen  wii 
'^cdfd,  and  well  nigh  forgotten,  it  might  be;  hut  [,he  diji', 
i^are  for  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  and  he  was  going  to  ask  her  iv.* 
ihere  was  nothing  to  say  but  "  Yes." 

She  avoided  him  all  that  day,  as  she  had  never  avoided  h  ra 
before  in  all  her  life.  If  iicr  chains  were  to  l»e  ( laspt^d,  at 
least  she  would  avert  the  fetters  as  long  as  she  could.  Sh.c 
shut  herself  up  in  her  room,  took  a  book,  and  forced  herself  to 
read.  She  would  not  think,  she  would  not  come  down.  It 
had  to  be,  but  at  least  she  would  have  a  respite  in  spite  o4 
them  alL 

The  lovely,  rosy  July  day  wore  on.  and  dinner  time  came. 
8he  had  to  go  down  then.     As  Owen  Meredith  says  : 

"We  EBay  live  withont  books — »  tut  U  ktiowicdge  but  (;rieviagt 
We  BBJiy  live  without  hope— what  is  ho;     '       deceiving? 
W«  may  live  without  lore — whai  is  pa.-    .^.   i   it  pining? 
But  where  i.s  the  m.in  iJiat  can  live  witliu    '  -  v  ing?" 

Her  respite  was  over.  She  must  face  her  doom.  She  went 
down  in  white  silk  and  pearls.  There  was  to  be  an  evening 
p>arty — theatricals,  charades,  dancing — a  large  company  were 
coming.  Slie  was  as  white  as  her  dress,  but  perfectly  calm. 
They  were  ever  a  brave  rare,  the  Clives,  going  to  the  scaffold 
or  to  the  altar  without  wincing  once. 

Sir  Arthur  took  her  in  to  dinner — gentlemen  never  know  whea 
they  are  not  wanted,  lie  was  \QTy  ^WtrM  during  that  meal, 
jjut  then  silence  was  \i\%  forte.  Lady  Cecil,  usually  the  bri^ht- 
«et  of  the  bright,  was  under  a  cloud  too.  She  cast  furtive, 
S^sloog  glances  at  her  companion.  Oh,  her  doom  was  sealed 
— that  compressed  mouth,  that  stem  face,  those  grave,  inexor- 
able  eyes  toild  the  story.  Do  her  best,  she  could  not  shirk 
iitahty  long. 

She  made  kei  escape  after  dinner,  unnoticed,  as  she  fondly 
hoped,  amid  the  gay  throng.  A  bright  little  boudoir,  all  ro«e 
filk  and  omaolu,  anid  cabinet  pictures,  opened  off  one  of  the 
^kawmg-rooins,  double  doors  aivd  a  velvet  curtain  shutting  it 
fe.  Thither  this  stricken  deer  tied.  The  double  doors  slid 
bock,  tisK  xx3«e  v^v«t  curtain  %eiL  asi^d  ^e  was  alone,  anaid  Iha 
|»ctai««  wd  th«  biiQ-4-biuc,  wiUi  U^e  crystal  utoonrays. 


«! 


ad9 


dlUJMOND   u'JJONNhLL. 


4 


II- 


,':il 


11 

dm 


,J*, 


Sh«  aiuak  down  \n  a  dormeu.se  in  ll^r  bay  window>  dr/w  9 
gremt  breath  of  relief,  and  looked  oui.  lluw  peaceful  it  wa?, 
hey  sweet,  how  hushed,  how  lonely.  Oh,  why  couldn't  life  b^ 
caat  in  some  blissful  .'Vrcndian  vill.jy,  where  existence  niij^ht  b*» 
one  long  succession  of  ruby  sun^eis  and  silver  mooariscs,  where 
■J^htingaJes  sing  the  world  to  slcej',  where  young  ladies  need 
never  get  married  at  all  if  ihey  like,  ami  thirty  thousand  a  yea^ 
te  not  a  necessity  o^  life  ?  She  c1a.<^]»ed  her  hands,  and  looke*! 
op  almost  passionately  at  that  bri-.^ht  opal  tinted  star-set  sky 

*  Oh  !  *  she  said,  "  i  wisli.  I  Al^h,  I  wish,  I  need  not  marry 
Sir  Arthur  Tregenna. 

"  Lady  Cecil,  i  beg  your  panioa  for  tiiis  intrusion,  but  thev 
have  sent  me  here  to  find  you." 

Her  clasped  hands  fell— her  hour  had  come.  Sir  Arthm 
stood  tall  and  serious  before  her.  She  looked  up,  all  her  tey- 
ror,  all  her  helpless  appeal  fur  an  instant  \\\  her  large,  soulful 
eves.  But  he  did  not  read  it  ariizht — what  man  ever  does? 
And  he  came  foiT\'ard  hastily,  eagerly.  Kow  beautiful  she 
looked,  how  noble,  how  sweet.-— a  wife  for  any  man  to  be 
proud  oC  He  stooped  over  her  and  took  her  hand.  The 
words  were  on  his  lips — in  one  niinutt^  all  would  be  over  ! 

"  Lady  Cecil,"  he  began.     '*  1  have  sought  you  here  to — " 

He  never  finished  the  sentence. 

The  door  slid  back,  the  curtain  was  lifted,  arul  Mmb  Her&i 
castie  ourae  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

REDMOND  O'DONNBLU 

ITH  the  golden  blaze  of  the  illuminated  drawing-rcom 
behind  her,  with  rose-velvet  cu.lains  half  draping  her, 
tlie  moonlight  full  upon  her  pale  face  and  jet  black 
hair — so  for  one  second  she  stood  before  fehera.  So 
Sir  Arthur  Tiegennasaw  her  first,  so  in  her  sleeping  and  waking 
dreams  all  her  \si*^  KsT^g,  Cecii  Clive  remembered  her,  st2uidiii|; 
ike  sonie  roi»-<drapei.}  itatue  in  the  arch. 

"  I^y  C^eciit,"  fesgan   the    soft,  siow   legaio  voice,  "  I^y 
sufca  *3rs  :s«  ilk  54*04  ds  --"    ilic  brolkL  <M.  suddcrJj  j 


V  rii , 


REDMOND    i/DONNELi^ 


aif 


M 


her, 
klack 
So 


ibe  kad  advanced  a  step,  and  fur  thcnfirst  time  pciceived  tha.1 
Lady  Cecil  was  not  alone.  1  beg  your  pardon,"  she  lajd^ 
**  but  I  wa'  not  aware — " 

"Wait — wait,  iVIiss  Hemcastle!"  Lady  Cecil  eiLclaimed, 
riaing  up  with  a  great  breath  of  intense  relief.  "  Lady  Danger 
field  sent  you  in  search  of  me,  I  suppose?  Has  anybod| 
cooie?     Are  they  prei>aring  for  the  Charades?" 

"Yes,  Lady  Cecil,  and  they  arc  waiting  for  you.  Tkere'f 
tlie  music" 

"You  play,  Sir  Arthur,  do  you  not  ?"  Lady  Cecil  turned  t© 
'sistk^  and  then  for  the  tirst  time  perceived  him  gazing  intently 
at  Miss  Hemcastle.  He  was  wondering  who  she  was — this 
tall,  majestic  woman,  ho  unlike  any  woman  he  had  as  yet  met 
in  thin  house.  "  Ah !  I  forgot,  you  don't  know  Miss  Hem- 
castle. Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  Miss  Herncastle.  How  odd  to 
live  in  the  same  house  a  week  and  a  half^  and  never  once  meet. 
Hark  I  is  not  that  Ginevra's  voice  calling  ?  " 

"  Queenie  I  Queenie  ! "  called  the  shrill,  impatient  voice  of 
her  larlysliip  ;  "  are  you  asleep  or  dead,  or  in  the  house,  or 
what  ?     Where  are  you  ?  " 

She  too  lifted  the  curtains  and  stared  at  the  group  in  indig* 
nant  surprise. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  all  doing  htre  in  the  moonlight  ?  Sir 
Arthur,  I  think  I  sent  you  after  Lady  Cecil  Clive.  Miss  Heri^- 
castle,"  sharply,  "  I  think  1  sent  you — .  Ls  there  some  en* 
cliantment  in  this  sylvan  spot  that  those  who  enter  it  can  never 
came  forth  ?  " 

She  looked  pointcJiy  at  the  baronet.  Had  he  had  time  t\> 
jwopose?  He  nas  not  a  man  of  fluent  speech  oi  florid  com- 
piiment,  like  her  gallant  major — he  only  smiled  in  his  grave 
way,  and  came  forth. 

lady  Cecil  had  sped  away  like  the  wind  already,  and  Mi»j 
Hemcastle,  witli  the  stately  air  and  grace  of  a  young  queen, 
ar<is  more  slowly  following. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  Sir  Arthur  asked  under  his  breath. 

'  Who  ?      Do  you  mean  Miss  Herncastle — my  governess  ?** 

''Your  goveriiess  ?     She  looks  like  an  empress." 

"  Ahaurdly  tall,  isn't  she  ? — half  a  giantess.  Do  you  like  tall 
«^men?  No;  (lont  trouble  yourself  to  Wrn  a  compliment. 
!  Bee  you  do.  Miss  Herncastle  is  to  assist  to-night  in  tl»  tab- 
5e«i»— that  is  why  you  see  her  here." 

Tliat  old,  never-failing  resource  of  coua^  houses,  ch&rsdsa 
^fHilWi^gY*^  "^izssrdi  vv^£  to  culii-ca  tk^  giiesls  %i,  SsAswooti  to> 


Ei  i 


ai4 


MAJJMOJND    ifDONNELU 


t 

\ 

r!    '  ■ 

h ' 

1 
I 

/ 

1 1  - 

!  •'  ■ 

i-  ; 

i  ''  ^ 

t,  :    ; 

:,:!■    l' 


ni^ht  Ths  ilisuaod  ball  room  had  been  fit'.ed  up  as  a  thta'Ti; 
«nth  stage  and  seats,  the  Castleford  military  band  was  alrea-J; 
di9K:oarsing  martial  music,  and  the  wcll-dressod  audience,  pr«> 
pared  to  be  delight<?d  with  everything,  had  already  taxen  theii 
Heats.  Fans  fluttered,  an  odor  as  of  Arab/s  npicy  breezes  ^41 
wafted  through  the  room,  a  low  murmur  of  conversation  inia 
;jled  with  the  stirring  strains  of  the  band,  the  la/nps  overhead 
iwinkled  by  the  dozen,  and  out  thro  igh  the  vide  open  wiiulowii 
jrm  caught  the  starry  night  sky,  the  sMver  crescent  slowly  sail* 
ing  up  over  the  tall  tret?-to])s. 

A  bell  tinkled  and  the  curtain  went  up.  Vou  saw  an  innh 
yard,  a  pump  and  horse  trough,  a^iistically  tnie  to  nature,  on 
'hes^api  "  Scarswood  Arms."  Enter  Boo**-,  (Major  ?^Vankland,) 
1  brush  in  one  hand,  a  g^iitleman's  Welling  ion  in  the  other,  in 
a  state  of  soliloc^uy.  He  gives  you  to  understand  he  is  in  love 
with  Susan,  the  barmaid,  and  Fanny,  the  chauiberi-.iaid  ;  and 
in  a  quandary  which  to  make  Mrs.  Boots.  Enter  Fanny — tall, 
(lark,  dashing — (Miss  Hattan,  the  rector's  daughter  ;)  and  some 
love  passages  immediately  ensued,  lioots  is  on  the  point  o< 
proposing  to  the  chambermaid,  wh;jn  there  conies  a  shrill  call 
(or  **  Fanny,"  and  Cuxii'  Fanny  wiih  a  last  coquettish  toss  of  lier 
long  black  ringlets,  a  last  coquettish  Hash  of  hei  bonny  black 
eyes.  Yes,  Boots  likes  Fanny  best-  will  [)ropose  to  F'anny, 
"vyhen  enter  Susan,  V.ie  barmaid  Barmaids  have  been  bewitch- 
mg  from  time  immemorial — this  barmaid  is  too  fascinating  to 
tell.  She  is  very  blonde — with  a  wig  of  golden  hair,  a  complex- 
ion of  paint  and  pearl  powder — a  very  short  skirt  of  rose  silk, 
a  bodice  of  black  velvet,  and.  a  perfectly  heart-breaking  little 
cap  of  rose-colored  ribbon  and  point-lace.  Barmaid  costume 
the  wide  world  over.  Enter  Susan  (Lady  Dangertield),  trip- 
pmg  jauntily  forward,  beanng  a  tray  of  tumblers,  and  blithely 
singing  a  little  song. 

Boots*  ?illegia!ice  is  shaken.  **  'Tother  one  was  pretty,"  he 
says,  "but  this  one  caps  the  globe.  And  then  she  have  a 
pretty  penny  in  Castleford  bank,  too."  More  love  passaget 
take  place.  Susan  is  coy, — shrieks  and  skumishes.  Down 
falh  the  tray,  smash  goes  the  glass.  Boots  jnust  have  that  kiss 
— struggles  for  it  manfully — gets  that  kiss — (it  sounded  very 
real  too) — Susan  slaps  his  face; — not  irretrievably  offended, 
though,  you  can  see,  and — "  Susan  I  Susan,"  bawls  a  loud  basj 
voice.  *' Coming,  mal  am,  coming!"  Sutian  answers,  shakes 
ksr  Mos^de  nnglets  at  gallajit  Boots,  shows  her  white  teetii,  atid 


KEVMOND   (JDONNELL. 


a»J 


Booti  16  alone.  Ik>i)ts  solil(X]uizcs  unce  iik^ic.  '•  How 
bttppy  could  I  be  with  either,  were  'tother  dear  charmer  a*ay." 

His  quandary  has  retiirned--he  cannot  nuke  up  his  mind. 
\i  he  marries  Fanny  he  will  hanker  after  Susan,  if  he  niarriei 
Susan,  he  will  break  his  heart  for  Fanny.  '*  Oh,  why  can't  « 
»wi  niairy  both — both — both  ? "  Boots  asks  with  a  niel. 
UK:holy  howl.  He  phmges  his  deeply  rougeil  face  into  ihr 
iBOwy  folds  of  a  scented  cambric  hanr'kercl-'ief,  and  sinks  down^ 
a  statue  of  despair,  still  feebly  murmuni«g  :  "  Bolh  -  both— 
both  ! "  The  curtain  falls  to  slow  and  so^Mnn  M)usic.  "  First 
•yllable  ! "  shouts  an  invisible  voice.  People  put  their  heads 
together,  and  wonder  if  the  tirst  syllable  is  not — "  Bothy 

The  bell  tinkles,  and  tht  curtain  goes  up  again.  This  time 
It  is  an  Eastern  scene.  A  large  painting  of  an  oasis  in  the 
desert  is  hung  in  the  background.  A  ;»''4cnn»  of  Bedouins  hover 
aloof  in  the  distance,  A  huge  marble  basii  filled  with  gold-fish 
occupies  the  center,  and  in  sandals  and  turban,  an  Eastern 
dignitary  sits  near.  The  Eastern  dignitary  is  Sir  Arthur  Tre- 
genna,  his  face  darkened,  his  fair  hair  hidden  by  his  gorgeous 
turban.  An  Eastern  damsel  approatlios,  a  scarlet  sash  round 
about  her  waist,  her  loose  hair  flov.ing,  her  beautiful  bare  arms 
upholding  a  stone  pitcher  on  her  head.  She  salaams  before  my 
lord  the  dignitary,  lets  down  her  pitcher  into  the  marble  well, 
and  humbly  offers  my  lord  to  drink.  The  band  [)lays  a  march. 
"Second  syllable  I"  shouts  the  invisible  voice,  and  the  curtain 
goes  down. 

It  rises  again — to  stirring  strains  this  time —  the  band  plays 
"  The  Gathering  of  the  Clans."  You  are  in  "  marble  halls»" 
pillars,  curtains- — and  a  great  deal  of  tartan  drapery.  Enter  a 
Miajestic  figure  in  court  attire.  (Major  Frankland  again.)  Hia 
miUtary  legs  look  to  advantage  in  Hesh  colored  tights,  his  mili- 
tary figure  is  striking  in  velvet  doublet,  cloak,  and  rapier,  his 
Kiilitary  head  in  a  plumed  cap.  He  is  a  Scotchman,  for  ho 
wears  a  tartan  sash,  and  his  plumed  cap  is  a  Scotch  bonnet 
His  mustaches  and  whiskers  are  jetty  black — his  complexion  is 
bronzed.  He  is  in  love  again,  and  soliloquizing — this  time  in 
ft  very  transport  of  passion.  He  loves  some  bright  particular  stai 
few  above  his  reach,  and  apostrophize^i  her  with  his  rapier  in  liif 
hand,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  chandelier.  Come  wliat  majr. 
■ooner  or  later,  he  is  determined  to  win  hei  though  his  path 
to  her  heart  lie  through  carnage  and  blood.  The  major  pro 
iKHBCkeos  k  "  bel — lud."  He  gnashes  his  exi>ensive  teeth,  and 
gi)M««  not?  ii»FO^><>u^y  ^iui  ever  at  the  chandelier.     In  tfa« 


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disUncc  he  espkrb  rrKKhc  court  gallant  in  brave  atliie,  ;iod 
■lore  tSLTtain  sash.  The  sight  brings  forth  a  f>C!fect  howl  of  jcail- 
oils  fury.  He  aposlrojihizcs  this  distant  cavalier  as  '*  Hen^ 
Stuart,  Lord  of  Darnley,  Duke  of  Albany,  arxi  King  of  Sc»t 
Und."  The  audience  have  evidently  got  among  royal  coiii> 
pany. 

The  warlike  strains  of  the  band  change  to  a  soft,  siie«% 
Scotch  air.  In  the  distance  you  hear  musical  feminine  laughte? 
tnd  talking — it  comes  nearer.  A  sweet  voice  is  singing — th< 
Castleford  brass  band  play  the  accompaniment  very  low  and 
sweet.  The  dark  gentleman  in  the  rapier  and  doublet  staggers 
bock  apace,  says  in  a  whisper  audible  all  over  the  room,  **  *Tis 
ikt/**  The  queen  approaches  with  her  three  Maries.  The 
sweet  voice  comes  nearer  ;  you  catch  the  words  of  the  queen's 
own  tong  of  the  '*  Four  Maries." 

"  Tbey  reveled  through  the  tunaiet  uicbft. 
And  by  day  Buide  lanoe  shafts  See, 
Kor  Mary  Heatoun,  Mary  Seabnin, 
Mary  Flcoung,  aiid  mt  f 

and  with  the  last  word  Mary  Stuart  enters,  her  three  Manes 
behind  her. 

She  looks  lovely.  It  is  l.ady  Cecil  Clive,  in  trailing,  jewel- 
studded  robe  of  velvet,  the  little  pointed  Mary  Stuart  cap,  with 
Its  double  row  of  pearls  and  a  diamond  flashing  in  the  center, 
stomacher,  dotted  with  seed-[>eat  Is,  rufHe,  enonnous  farthingale. 
She  is  smiling — she  is  exquisite  —she  holds  out  her  hands  with 
**  Ah !  my  lord  of  Bothwell  and  Hailes,  you  here,  and  listening 
to  our  poor  song  ? "  The  noble  doffs  his  plumed  cap,  sinks 
gracefully  down  on  one  knee,  and  lifts  the  fair  hand  to  his  lips. 
Tableau  I  i^ively  music — still  very  Scotch.  "  My  queen — Lm 
Xeime  Bkmche**  he  murmurs.  The  audience  applaud.  It  is 
very  pretty,  Black  Bothwell  and  the  White  Queen,  and  the  three 
Maries  strUcing  an  attitude  in  the  background. 

Of  course  the  word  is  ''  Bothwell;"  a  child  could  guess  it. 

Another  charade  followed,  then  came  a  number  of  tableaux. 
Ib  one  of  these  Miss  Hemcastle  appeared — in  only  one; 
and  then  by  her  own  request  and  at  the  solicitation  of  Lady 
CedL  The  tableau  was  "  Charlotte  Corday  and  the  Fnend  ol 
the  People."     Sir  Peter  Dangerheld  in  the  role  of  Marat. 

The  cnrtain  went  up.  You  saw  an  elegant  apartment,  a 
bath  in  the  center,  and  in  the  bath  the  bloodthirst}'  monster 
who  ruled  £ur  France.  A  desk  is  placed  across  the  tub  ;  he 
writes  as  )ic  sits  jp. jyii^  Jifttb y  hp  si^os  deaih-wanaats  by  tha 


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<Si/se«v  And  gloats  with  hciUsh  cxuiuiion  over  hi»  woik.  There 
b  aa  altercation  without  -so: :ie  one  iiisists  upon  seeing  hiui« 
The  door  slowly  opens,  some  one  slowly  enters,  the  lights  go 
*lowly  down,  semi-darkness  rules  the  scene,  (he  band  plays  the 
awfn!  music  of  Don  Giovaimi  before  the  stiUue  enters.  A  tall 
female  figure  glides  in,  in  a  trailing  black  robe  ;  she  glides  slowly 
forward— -slowly,  slowly.  Hrr  f.icc,  :ieadly  pale,  tunis  to  thf 
tndience  a  moment.  Ciufrht-d  ii\  the  folds  of  that  sable,  sweep- 
ing robe,  you  see  a  long,  sler.ler,  gleaming  dagger.  The  silence 
of  awe  j*nd  expectation  faUs  ui)on  the  audience.  She  glidef 
nearer,  nearer  ;  she  liffs  ♦he  dagger,  her  pale  face  awful,  venge- 
h\  in  the  dim  light.  Die  I'neml  of  the  People  looks  up  foi 
the  first  time,  but  it  is  ti)o  late.  Tiie  Avt/nger  is  ahnost  upon 
him,  the  gleaming  dagger  is  uplifted  to  strike.  Sir  Peter  Dan- 
ger field  Deh  olds  the  terrible  face  of  Miss  Herncastle ;  he  seet 
the  brandished  knife,  and  leaps  uj)  with  a  shriek  of  terror  that 
rings  through  the  house.  A  thrill  of  horror  goes  through  every 
one  as  the  curtain  ra|)idly  fails. 

"Good  Heaven  !  she  lias  killed  him  ! "  an  excited  voice  says. 

Then  the  lights  tlash  up,  the  band  crashes  out  the  "Guards 
Waltz  ; "  but  for  a  moment  neither  lights  nor  music  can  over 
conie  the  spell  that  has  fallen  upon  them. 

"Who  was  that?"  everybodv  asks — *' who  played  Charlotte 
Corday?" 

And  everybody  feels  a  second  shock,  this  time  of  disappoint- 
ment, as  the  answer  is : 

"Only  Lady  Dangerfield's  nursery  governess." 

Behind  the  scenes  the  sensation  was  greater.  Pale,  affrighted, 
Sir  Peter  had  rushed  off,  and  into  the  midst  of  the  actors. 

"  How  dare  you  send  that  woman  to  me  ? "  he  cried,  treni- 
Ming  with  rage  and  excitement.  "  Why  did  you  not  tell  me 
that  she  was  selected  to  play  with  me  ?  " 

Tfic  well-bred  crowd  stared.  Had  Sir  Petei  gone  ma/ i 
rhey  looked  at  Lady  Dangerfield,  pale  with  anger  and  mor'A- 
iation — at  Lady  Cecil,  distressed  and  striving  to  explain,  and 
it  Miss  Herncastle  herself— standing  calm,  modonless.  self- 
posseitsed  as  ever. 

They  quieted  him  in  some  way,  but  he  threw  off  his  Maral 
robe  and  left  the  assembly  in  disgust.  Miss  Herncastle  would 
have  followed,  but  Lady  Cecil,  her  gentle  eyes  quite  flashing, 
Miadeit 

*'Noo8enae,  Miss  Herncastle  !  P>ecause  Sir  Peter  chooees  Xm 
|)e  a  hfrstencal  goose,  ia  tlmt  any  reason  jou  should 


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for  his  foDy  ?  You  acted  splcnditlly — splendidly,  I  «jr— /j^ 
are  a  born  actress.  I  really  thought  for  a  moment  you  hai9 
subbed  him  !  You  shall  not  go  up  and  mope  in  your  room 
— you  shall  stay  and  see  the  play  played  out.  Sir  Arthur 
unuse  Miss  Herncastle  while  I  dress  for  the  tableau  of  Rebec  ca 
ft&d  Rowena." 

Sir  Arthur  obeyed  with  a  smile,  at  the  pretty  peremptorj 
rommand.  He  was  strangely  struck  with  this  tall,  majeatit 
foung  woman,  who  looked  as  an  exiled  queen  might,  who 
•poke  in  a  voice  that  was  as  the  music  of  the  spheres,  and  who 
was  only  a  nursery  governess.  She  had  produced  as  pro<oi'.nd 
an  impression  upon  him  as  upon  the  others,  by  her  vividly 
powerful  acting.  Charlotte  Corday  herself  could  never  have 
looked  one  whit  more  stern  and  terrible,  with  the  uplifted  knif<? 
over  the  doomed  head  of  the  tyrant,  than  had  Miss  Herncastle. 

"  Her  Majesty,  La  Reine  Blanche,  commands  but  to  be 
obeyed,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  "Pennit  me  to  lead  you  to  a 
seat,  Miss  Herncastle,  and  allow  me  to  indorse  Lady  Cecil's 
prords.     You  are  a  born  actress." 

She  smiled  a  little,  and  accepted  his  proffered  arm.  Some 
of  the  ladies  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  exchanged  glances. 
A  baronet  and  a  governess  !  He  led  her  to  a  seat  in  the  thea- 
ter, and  remained  by  her  side  until  the  performance  ended. 

They  talked  commonplaces,  of  course — discussed  the  diflferent 
tableaux  and  the  different  actors  ;  and  when  the  last  tableau  waa 
applauded  and  the  curtain  fell  upon  the  finale,  he  drew  her  hand 
within  his  aim  once  more,  and  was  her  escort  back  to  the  draw- 
ing-room. Dancing  followed.  As  has  been  said,  the  baronet 
did  not  dance.  He  led  Miss  Herncastle  to  a  seat  and  took 
.mother  beside  her.  What  was  it  that  interested  him  in  her  he 
wondered — he  was  interested,  strangely.  Not  her  beauty — she 
was  in  no  way  beautiful ;  not  her  conversation,  for  she  had  said 
very  little.  But  she  was  clever — he  could  see  that;  and  wiui 
wonderful  eyes  she  had — bright,  deep,  solemn.  How  her  soft^ 
islumbrous  accents  pleased  and  lingered  on  the  ear.  She  wai 
dressed  in  white  to-night — in  dead  white,  without  jewel  or  ribbon. 
Her  abundant  black  hair  was  braided  and  twined  like  a  coronet 
vound  her  head — in  its  blackness  a  cluster  of  scarlet  fuchsias 
ihone.  He  had  once  seen  a  picture  of  Semiramis,  Queen  of 
Aasjrria,  in  a  robe  of  white,  and  with  blood-red  roses  wreathisg 
her  black  hair.  And  to-night  Miss  Herncastle,  the  nurseij  goi^ 
looked  like  Queen  Semiramis. 


REDMOND  ODOfmMLL, 


289 


thiBg 
gov 


tonuBg  over  a  book  of  engravings,  ami  paused  ovet 
iM  ikit,  with  a  smile  on  her  face. 

"What  is  it?"  Sir  Arthur  asked.  "  Your  engraving  seems 
to  interest  you.     It  is  very  pretty.     What  do  you  call  it  ?  " 

"It  b  *  King  Cophetua  and  the  Beggar  Maid/  and  it  tUa 
tmase  me.  Look  at  the  Beggar  Maid — see  what  a  charming 
short  dress  she  has  on  t  look  at  the  tlowers  in  her  flowing  hair  ! 
bok  at  the  perfect  arms  and  hands  !  What  a  pity  the  beggar- 
maids  of  everyday  life  can't  look  pretty  and  picturesque  like  this  1 
lot  then  if  pictures,  and  poets,  and  book^  rei)resented  life  as 
life  really  is,  the  charm  would  be  gone.  We  can  excuse 
Cophetua  for  falling  in  love  with  that  exquisite  Greek  profile, 
that  haughty,  high-bred  face.  Notice  how  much  more  elegant 
she  is  than  those  scandalized  ladies-in-waiting  in  the  background. 
*  This  beggar-maid  shall  be  my  queen  ! '  the  enraptured  king  is 
saying,  and  really  for  such  a  face  one  can  almost  excuse  him." 

Sir  Arthur  smiled. 

"  Almos/ excuse  him  1     I  confess  I  can't  perceive  the  *  almost 
Why  should  he   not   make   her  Queen  Cophetua,  if  he  wills  ? 
She  is  beautiful,  and  graceful,  and  young,  and  good.' 

**  And  a  beggar-maid.  The  beauty  of  a  Venus  Celestes,  the 
grace  of  a  bayadere,  the  goodness  of  an  an^el,  would  not  coun 
terbalance  that.  Kingly  eagles  don't  mate  with  birds  of  paradise, 
be  their  plumage  never  so  bright.  And  beggar  maids  have 
Grecian  noses,  and  exquisite  hands,  and  willowy  figures  in — 
pictures,  and  nowhere  else.  In  real  life  their  noses  are  of  the 
genus  pug,  their  fingers  stumpy  and  grimy,  their  figures  stout 
and  strong,  and  they  talk  with  a  horrid  cockney  accent  and  drop 
their  h's.  No,  these  things  happen  in  a  laureate's  poems — io 
life,  never." 

"  Wherr  did  you  get  your  cjmicisms,  Miss  Hemcastle  ?  VvTio 
conld  have  thought  a  young  lady  could  be  sv  hard  and  practical  ?  " 

**  A  young  lady  !  nay,  a  governess.  All  the  difference  in  tht 
V9rld,  Sir  Arthur.  A  world  all  sunshine  and  couUur  de  rose  tc 
-^well — an  earl's  daughter,  say — looks  a  very  gloomy  and  grue- 
some place  seen  through  a  governess's  green  spectacles." 

She  laughed  a  little  as  she  turned  the  book  over.  Sir  Arthur 
■troked  his  long,  fair  beard  and  wondered  what  manner  of  woman 
tf  lis  was. 

**  How  bitterly  she  talks,"  he  thought ;  "  and  .she  looks  like  a 
person  who  has  seen  trouble.     T  won4er  what  her  life  can  have 

He  wan   pvixxted  initere'?ted— -a  dangerou?   beginning.     H« 
16 


ttBDMOND   ODOSf'.if'^ 


I.   \\ 


Vri 


MmmsJ  bylicr  aide  nearly  the  whole  eveninff.  1^./  19' ng^-. 
ftma looked  on  in  suqmse  and  indignation.  Such  unwarTantaD7''i 
presumption  on  Miss  Herncastle's  part,  sui.h  ridiculous  attendoii 
on  that  of  Sir  Arthur. 

"Qneenic,  do  you  see?"  she  said,  half  angrily;  "there  b 
Aat  forward  creature,  the  governess,  actually  monopolizing  Sit 
Arthur  the  whole  night.  VVhat  does  it  mean?  And  you  looii 
at  though  you  didn't  care." 

Lady  Cecil  laughed  and  fluttered  her  fan.  There  was  a  decf 
permanent  flush  on  her  cheek  to-night,  a  light  in  the  brown  eyes 
diat  rarely  came.     She  looked  quite  dazzling. 

"  I  (Ufit  care,  Lady  Dangerfield.  Miss  Herncastle  may  monojv 
elize  him  until  doomsday  if  she  chooses.  What  it  means  is 
Jiis — I  asked  Sir  Arthur  in  the  green-room,  two  hours  ago,  to 
amuse  her,  and  he  is  only  obeying  orders.  Upon  my  word, 
Ginevra,  I  think  he  is  really  enjoying  himself  for  the  first  time 
since  his  arrival.  See  how  interested  and  well  pleased  he  looks. 
You  ought  to  feel  grateful  to  Miss  Herncastle  for  entertaining 
so  well  your  most  distinguished  guest.  I  .always  thought  she 
was  a  clever  woman — hoav  I  feel  sure  of  it.  What  a  pity  she 
isn't  an  earl's  daughter — she  is  just  the  woman  of  all  women  he 
ought  to  marry.  Don't  interrupt,  I  beg,  (iinevra ;  let  poor  Sir 
Arthur  be  happy  in  his  own  way." 

She  laii:ghed  again  and  floated  away  She  was  brilliant  beyond 
expression  to-night — some  hidden  excitement  surely  sent  that 
red  to  her  cheeks,  that  fire  to  her  eyes.  Lady  Dangerfield,  too, 
had  her  little  excitement,  for  the  preserver  of  her  life  had  been 
found  and  was  actually  now  in  the  rooms. 

He  had  entered  some  hours  ago  wth  the  earl,  and  taken  his 
place  among  th*"  audience.  He  had  applauded  the  BothweV 
scene,  and  watched  La  Reine  Blanche  with  cool,  critical  eyes. 
She  was  very  beautiful,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  dazzle  him, 
1  Ae  all  the  rest,  the  "  Charlotte  Corday  "  tableau  had  struck 
kim  most. 

•*Thc  deuce,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath,  as  he  looked  al 
JMi  ;  "  who  the  dickens  is  it  that  lady  reminds  rne  of  ?  " 

He  caald  not  place  her,  and  as  she  did  not  appear  again,  ht 
speedily  forgot  her.  He  went  with  the  earl  into  the  ballroom, 
^e  cynosure"  of  many  pairs  of  bright  eyes.  The  tall,  soldierh 
&^e,  the  dashing  trooper  swing,  the  dark  facfi,  with  its  bronzed 
skin,  its  auburn  beard  and  mustache,  its  keen  blue  eyes,  Looking 
ftcorly  black  under  their  blar.li  brov^s  and  lashes,  tlie  statel) 
po*«  of  the  head,  would  have  'Tonimanded  atterttion  anywhere 


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ttentiob 

there  if 

t)u  loolt 

*  a  decf 
wn  eyes 

monojv 
leans  is 
ago,  to 
y  word, 
rst  time 
c  looks, 
rtaining 
ight  she 
[)ity  she 
men  he 
>oor  Sii 

beyond 
nt  that 
;ld,  too, 
id  been 

ken  his 
othweU 
il  eyesL 
le  him, 
struck 

>ked  at 

ain,  hi 
lltoen), 
)ldierl3> 
ronzcd 
ookin^ 
state!) 
where 


ll  WM  tbe  gentleman  who  had  come  to  the  rescue  of  the  b(Mt 
ing  party,  and  whom  Lord  Ruysland  had  **  met  by  chants,  tk>^ 
oiaal  way,"  and  insisted  u{X)n  accompanying  hin:  home. 

" My goud fellow," he  had  said  palheticali/,  "you  must caa,^ 
Lady  Dangerfield  has  had  an  adventure  for  the  first  time — y(X 
wn  the  hero  of  that  adventure.  She  overflows  with  romantit 
gratitude.  She  would  never  forgive  me  if  1  tiid  not  fetch  you 
— she  is  dying  to  know  the  preserver  of  her  life.  What  are  ywi 
laughing  at  ?    Come  and  be  tlianked." 

The  tall  soldier  had  come,  and  was  preseiited  in  dne  fi)rm  to 
my  lady.  He  was  thanked.  My  lady's  expressions  of  grati 
tude  were  eloquent  and  tiowiiig — her  rescuer  was  better  looking, 
even  than  she  had  supposed  at  first  glance — fery  much  better 
looking  than  Major  Franklaixl.  The  gentleman  listened,  stroked 
his  mustache,  and  looked  bored.  The  earl  glanced  around. 
His  niece's  fickle  (ancy  wa.s  caught  once  again — Frankland  had 
(bund  a  rival 

"  And  now,  my  dear,"  he  said  blandly,  "  before  you  quite 
overpower  my  poor  friend,  1  think  I'll  take  him  to  Cecil.  They 
are  quite  old  friends,  I  assure  you,  and  she  will  be  delighted  to 
meet  him  once  nvr,e." 

They  crossed  to  where  she  stood,  the  center  of  a  gay,  brilliant 
group.  She  wore  the  Mary  Stuart  dress  and  cap  once  more, 
and  looked  lovely.  In  the  midst  of  her  laughing  repartee  her 
fether's  voice  fell  on  her  ear  : 

'*Queenie,  turn  round  and  greet  an  old  friend."  Anothci 
voice  spoke — a  deep  manly  tone  : 

**  Six  years  is  a  long  time  to  hope  for  remembrance,  but  I 
trast  even  six  years  has  not  made  La  Rgint  Blaruh*  forget  th* 
kumbleit  of  her  subjects." 

The  laughing  words  died  on  her  lips.  A  sort  of  stiUoess  caflM 
over  her  from  head  to  foot.  She  turned  round  amf  «to«l  fiMt 
t»  iNs  we\  'Captain  Radmond  O  DoanelL 


rf 


l.-f 


SIX    YEA/IS  BEFORE. 


■•it' 


CHAPTER  IX. 


aiK    VSARS    BE  FORK. 


I  I 


If! 


t 


H 


INI)  is  it  th€  road  to  T()iT)'glin  their  hoiHMn  fe<  *xi« 
utther  ?  Arrah  1  get  out  o'  me  road,  M'uty,  ab'  2'  t 
rj^ake  to  the  quality  nieself.  Torryglin  is  it  yet 
honor's  spakin'  av?"  said  Mr.  Tiii;olhy  Cronin,  ]i.u6 
lord  of  the  |)opular  shebeen,  "  77i^  Little  Dhudeen^*  in  the  towi 
of  Ballyn'O^aggart,  County  Fermanagh,  Ireland,  pulling  of!  hii 
Mmketn  and  making  the  quality  a  low  bow. 

The  Earl  of  Ruysland  and  his  daaghisr  sat  in  their  saddles 
before  the  door.  It  was  drawing  near  the  close  of  a  cloudy, 
£hill,  autumn  afternoon.  The  wind  was  r'^ing  to  a  steady  gale, 
tnd  overhead  spread  a  dark,  fast-drifting  threatening  sky. 

"Yes,  Torryglen,"  his  lords^*ip answered,  impatiently ;  "  how 
many  miles  between  this  and  Torryglen*  \ny  good  fellow?  " 

"Six,  av  ycr  honor  takes  the  ro«ii— three-  maybe  not  so 
much,  dv  ye  take  the  mountains." 

"The  mountains — but  I  don't  know — " 

"  Shure,  ye  can't  go  asthray — if*  as  straight  as  the  nose  on 
yer  hooof's  face.  Crass  the  CIlin  there  beyant — the  path's  be- 
fore ye  ao  plain  a  blind  man  cudn't  tniss  it.  Thin  turn  t/.>  the 
•ight  and  crass  the  sthrame,  whin  ye  ^et  to  Torrybahni-an    -   -" 

"  B«l,  ray  good  man,"  cried  the  earl,  still  more  iropatienily, 
**  I  4o»  t  know  your  confounded  *  sthrames '  or  *  Torrybahr.%3,' 
■ad  w€  il  go  astray  to  a  dead  certainty  if  we  take  this  winding 
bnJle-path  you  s{}eak  of.  The  rnoun  .ain  lakes  Jkiid  streams  ar« 
floode>^  beside,  they  told  rae  in  :!)nniskillen — the  wiy  jsm 
l^ak  wf  may  be  shorter  but  dargvious." 

"  Sorra  danger  !  "  said  Tim  jthy  Cronin,  disdainfully.  "  Ycf 
bastes  will  take  it  in  the  clappin'  av  yer  hands.  But  si  yer 
ftfeered,  ycr  honor — an'  shure  it  'ud  be  a  thousand  pities  t?>  have 
the  purty  young  lady  beside  ye  belated,  sure  there's  :i  daceot 
boy  here  &iaf  11  convoy  ye  a  piec<^  o'  the  read  an  welcctae 
Mickey — Mickey  avic — come  here  ! " 

Mi€key  came — the  **  dacent  boy  "  of  Mr,  Cronin' s  eulogy — 
%  fftripling  kA  perhaps  five  and-forty  sunnucfs.  Mickey  wa« 
imoking  a  little  black  pipe,  and  gave  his  forelock  a  pull  of  re- 
ipect  to  the  gentry. 

"'lliit  U  Mickey,  yer  honor — Micky  McGuiggan — as  soople 
ft  bofr  ai  any  in  the  town  Ian' ;   knows  ivery  fbt  av  the  roa<t 


%     '\ 


"Ycf 

^>  have 
iaceot 
cGiae 


y 


SrX    YEARS  BEFORE. 


a9l 


bether  thin  his  prayers,  an'  goes  over  it  aftti.c;r.  It's  Torry 
glin  thafs  wantin',  Mickey — an'  shure  this  is  the  loid  himself— 
an'  ye'il  take  thirn  acrass  the  iiills  and  1  orrybahin  afore  night 
(all,  an'  good  luck  to  ye." 

"Come  on  then,  my  man,"  th.;  earl  said  to  Mickey,  an^ 
6inging  the  landlord  of  the  **  JJtile  Dhudeen  "  a  crown  for  hit 
civility,  the  guide,  barefooted,  his  jupe  still  in  his  moutl^ 
skipped  ahead  with  the  fleet  footed  rapidity  of  a  peasant  born 
and  bred  on  the  spot,  the  two  eiiuestiians  following  at  a  toleia 
ble  pace." 

The  scenery  was  wild  and  pictures<|ue.  Here  and  there  a 
thatched  cabin,  with  its  little  potato  garden — the  only  sign  oi 
human  habitation — pun)le  and  nisset  inoorland,  towering  cliffs, 
and  black  beetling  rocks.  Away  in  the  distance  the  roar  of 
mountain  torrents,  swollen  by  recent  heavy  rains,  and  over 
their  heads  that  black,  heavily  drifting  sky,  threatening  another 
downpour. 

"  By  Heaven  I  Cecil,"  the  earl  exclaimed,  looking  upward  at 
the  frowning  canopy,  "  the  storm  will  be  upon  us  before  wc 
reach  Torryglen  yet.  What  a  fool  I  was  not  to  remain  at 
Enniskillen,  until  to-morrow." 

"  Only  three  miles,  he  said,  i)apa,  and  we  have  surely  ridden 
one  of  them  already.  As  for  the  storm,  a  wet  jacket  won't 
hurt  either  of  us,  and  I  suppose  they  will  give  us  a  good  fire 
and  a  hot  dinner  when  we  reach  the  house." 

"  Divil  fear  thim  but  they  will !  "  niuttered  Mr.  McGuiggan, 
ahead,  "  sorra  hate  I'm  towld  thim  English  does  but  ate  and 
dhrink.  Lashins  o'  whiskey  every  hour  in  the  twinty  four  av* 
they  plase,  an'  beef  and  mutton  ivery  day  av  their  lives,  Frida>s, 
an'  sJL  An'  if  s  the  lord  himself  I'm  conveyin'  and  his  daugh 
ter;  troth,  but  she's  a  party  craytlnir,  too" 

"  Papa,"  Lady  Cecil  said  wistfully,  "  is  it  possible  peopk 
really  Uve,  and  eat  and  sleep  in  tliese  wretched  hovels  ?  ) 
nave  seen  poverty  before,  but  never  such  poverty  as  this." 

**They  are  little  bett-^r  than  savages,  my  c!':ar,  and  as  might 
be  expected,  live  in  a  semi-savage  slate.      The  scenery  is  wild 
enough  and  grand  enuugli  at  least.     Look  at  those  black  beet 
ling  cliffs  crowned  with  arbatis  and  holly.     If  wc  were  artists 
Queenie,  we  might  paint  this,  and  inmortalize  ourselves." 

"The  storm  is  coming,"  Lady  Cecil  cried,  as  a  great  dro[ 
iplaihed  upon  her  upturned  face,  and  the  hills  shook,  with  tht 
niUen  roar  of  distant  thunder.  "  You  were  nght,  we  arc  in  (b- 
A  ^Mtinff  after   all  ' 


! 


1" 


194 


SJJf    YEARH  BliFOHE. 


1 1 

I' 


!!• 


I     1      I 


'M    ■! 


"How  many  jnilrs  rf>  T()rr)'glrri  fww,  my  w:::i  ?  **  the  ew^ 
e&Iled  atixiousJ). 

"  >lc»^tlier  th'^n  wan  ji/  a  half.'*  't-siv-.r-flcd  th.*ir  guide;  "'an' 
troth  ye'Ii  kcidi  it  !  D'ye  lieai  liui  luai  ?  i'iiat's  the  moun 
Um  Uacs  s|i(>utin,  an'  whin  ihoy  ilu  ihat,  be  me  word,  thctVi 
JIanger  in  cra-isin  the  stliranii?.  Ai^'  yc  niiisl  rrass  it  to  get  \\i 
'forrygliii  ihi^  iiight.  A  chile  k.\A  <\o  it  dhry  shod  in  ihe  hat^ 
y  sutiinier,  but  now — bedad  !  I  hope  your  bastei  is  gtxx! 
shwimniers,  or  yc'll  rwersee  the  other  side.  'I'here'i"  acurren'. 
there  that  wud  carry  an  army  u'  men  over,  an  li  fall  to  back  it 
thirty  feet  deep." 

"Then  what  the  devil!"  cried  the  earl  angrily,  "did  that 
rascally  landlord  mean  by  saying  there  was  no  danger,  and  rec- 
oinnientiing  this  way  ?  VVhy  did  he  not  p^rrniit  us  to  take  the 
high  road  as  we  intended  ?  It  might  liave  been  longer  perhaps, 
but  al  least  it  would  have  bt.en  sale." 

"Faix,  that's  true  for  yer  honor.  Shure  a  short  cut  any- 
where's  always  the  longest  way  in  the  ind.  Troth,  mcselfs 
thinkin'  the  high-road  wud  have  been  the  shortest  cut  this 
blissid  night.  And  there's  the  sthranie  for  yc  now,  ar  d  be 
goracnties,  if s  roarin'  like  mid  !  " 

Mr.  McGuiggan  jiaused — Lord  Raysland  and  Lady  Cecil 
diew  up  their  hores  aghast.  A  foaming  torrent  ci\*rised  their 
path  swollen  to  the  width  of  a  river,  rushing  over  the  rocks 
with  the  fury  of  a  cataract,  and  plunging  wildly  over  a  precipice 
thirty  yards  distant. 

"There  it  is  for  ye,"  said  Mickey,  stolidly;  "an'  if  ye'r« 
afeerd  to  cross,  trotk  there's  nothin'  for  ii  but  jist  turn  roun' 
and  ride  back  to  Pallynahaggarl.  An'  nieiielf's  thinkin',  con- 
ahideren'  the  bewtiful  young  lady  yer  lordship  has  wid  ye,  it  'ud 
be  the  wisest  thing  ye  cud  do.  Shure  ye' 11  be  cliirowned  intirely, 
urid  the  rain  and  the  lightnin,  t^xce[)i  in  case  that  yer  hors*r£ 
can  shwiiii  it.     An'  faix  ineself  \\.v^  d».>abla  av  that  same." 

The  laiu  was  fallin;^  now  in  drc-ini.iiit;  :'..irciits,  the  roar  ol 

■^e  thunder  and  riu'hing  waters  connningleil  in  a  dread  diapason  ; 

tioia  crag  to  crag  the  living   llgiuning  'kMi^>ed ; "  and  before 

U»eni»  barring  farther  progress.  f)oure(]  madly  by  the  rushing, 

^Wious  river. 

"What  ihall  we  do,  Cecil i*  *  the  eaii  aiiked,  with  ihe  caha 
JBteusity  of  despair. 

"I  don't  know,  papa,'  Lady  Cecil  re.'i»onded;  and  in  spite 
A  tiit  cLanger  and  disagreeablenes»  generally,  there  was  a  sixiilr 
-1  her  lips  m  she  watched  Mr    Mirh^el  MeCVui^^gan  staitdioj 


S/X    YEARS  S/i/'OMM. 


*9% 


ye  re 
roun' 
con- 
it  'ud 
itircly, 
lorsct 


calm 


scriiir 


■mid  all  the  sublime,  savage  grandeur  uf  the  scene  Anil  tbt 
itonu,  his  hands  in  his  taltcf.;!  corduroy  pockets,  his  little 
black  pipe  in  his  mouth,  scaninn^  the  prospect  with  calm  phi- 
losophy. " It  maybe  dangerous  to  go  on,  and  yet  one  hates Xm 
torn  back." 

"  I'm  d — d  if  I  turn  back  !"  muttered  the  earl,  savagely,  be* 
tween  his  teeth.  *'  Do  you  coaio  with  us,  my  man,  or  doet  youi 
pilotage  end  here  ?  " 

"  There  it's  for  ye,"  responded  Mickey,  dogmatically,  nod 
ding  toward  lae  river  ;  **  take  it  or  lave  it,  but  sorra  shooasidc 
will  I  commit  this  night.  Av  yer  bastes  wor  Irish  now,"  look 
ing  with  ineffable  disdain  at  t)ie  thoroughbreds  ridden  by  the 
earl  and  his  daughter ;  "but  -  Oh,  wirra  I  wirral  there  thej 
go,  and,  av  Providence  hasn't  said  it,  they'll  be  dhi owned  afore 
Tie  eyes  ! " 

"  Come  on,  Cecil !  "  the  earl  exclaimed  ;  "  our  horses  will  do 
tt|  and  every  moment  we  spend  here  is  a  moment  wasted." 

He  seized  her  bridle  rein,  and  the  animals  plunged  headlong 
into  the  flood.  Lady  Cecil  sat  her  horse  as  though  part  of  the 
animal,  and  grasped  tl\e  reins  with  the  strength  of  desperation. 
Both  she  and  the  earl  strove  to  head  their  horses  against  the 
boiling  current,  but,  after  the  fust  plunge,  the  terrified  horses 
stood  amid  the  seething  foam  as  if  spell-bound.  Lord  Ruys- 
land,  his  teeth  set,  struck  his  own  a  savage  blow  with  his  whip. 
He  sprang  madly  forward,  leading  the  other  in  his  wake. 

"  Courage,  Cecil  -courage  ! "  the  earl  shouted.  "  We  will 
lord  this  hell  of  waters  yet ! " 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  at  that  instant  she  was  unseated,  and 
with  a  long,  wild  cry  was  tossed  like  a  feather  in  the  gale  down 
ktraight  to  that  awful  precipice  below. 

No  mortal  help,  it  seemed,  could  save  her.  Her  fathei 
made  frantic  efforts  to  reach  her,  but  in  vain.  Near,  nearer, 
nearer  to  that  frightful,  hissing  chasm,  to  be  dashed  to  atoin« 
«n  the  rocks  below.  In  the  midst  of  the  wateri  the  earl  sat  hii 
horte,  white,  powerless,  paralyzed. 

*•  Oil,  God  ! "  he  cried,  "  can  nothing  save  her  ?  " 

Yes ;  at  the  last  moment  a  wild  shout  came  from  the  opposite 
bank,  a  figure  plunged  headlong  into  the  river,  and  headed 
with  almost  superhuman  strength  toward  her. 

"  Cling  to  the  rock  for  the  love  of  Ood  1 ''  shouted  a  voirr 
ikroiigh  the  din  of  the  storm. 

Through  the  din  of  the  storm,  tiu^augh  her  reeling  fre;  - 
Ae  heard  that  cry  and  obeyed.    She  caught  at  a  rock  nrii.  x.^a 


! 


^ 


SIX    YEARS   HEfOKR. 


Jli  i 


I      ! 


grafped  it  with  the  tenacity  of  tlesi>air  for  a  tiion.ent ;  uiothei. 
and  the  was  t(^n  away,  held  \s'ith  iron  strength  in  the  grasp  o( 
a  strong  arm.  There  was  a  last,  desperate  struggle  witii  thf 
surging  fltxxl — a  struggle  in  wi)ich  both  she  and  her  rescu::) 
were  nearly  whirled  over  the  chasm.  Then,  in  the  uproar  in^' 
darkness,  there  came  a  lull  ;  then  the  tumult  of  many  voices 
in  wild  Irish  shouts  ;  then  she  wis  lyin^  on  the  oj-'/XDiite  bank 
drenched  from  head  to  foot,  but  saved  from  an  awful  death. 

"  Hurra*  1"  shouted  a  wild  voice.  '*  l.oiij^  life  to  ye,  Mist*? 
Redmond  1  Shure  it's  yerstrlf  is  the  thnie  warrant  for  a  sthrong 
arm  and  a  sthout  heart  I  Hegorra !  though  ye  war  near  it  i 
Upon  me  lowl,  there  isn't  anotliei  man  in  the  barony  but  yer 
self  cud  av*  dun  it." 

"Oh,  stow  all  that,  I.anty  !  '  answered  an  impatient  voice, 
as  Lady  Cecil's  preserver  gave  himself  a  shake  like  a  water-dog. 
"  I'll  hold  you  a  guinea  it's  the  Ktiglish  lord  and  his  daughter 
on  their  way  to  Torryglen,  Were  tliey  mad,  I  wonder,  to  try 
and  ford  the  torrent  in  this  storm  ?  See  how  he  breasts  the 
current — he's  down — no,  he's  up  again — now  he's  gained  the 
bank.  Wy  tlie  rock  of  Cashell !  gallanily  done — a  brave  beast ! 
f^anty,  if  you  can  do  aiiylliing  more  for  them,  do  it.     I'm  off." 

He  bounded  away  in  the  rainy  twilight  with  the  speed  of  a 
young  stag.  The  peasant  addressed  as  *'  I^anty"  looked  after 
him. 

"By  the  powers,  but  it's  like  >e  and  all  yer  breed,  seed,  and 
gineration,  to  go  to  the  divil  to  save  any  one  in  disthress,  and 
thin  fly  as  if  he  were  afther  ye  for  fear  ye'd  get  thanked.  Oh, 
but  if  s  nieself  that  knows  ye — father  an'  son — this  many  'x  day 
well     God  save  your  honor  kindly." 

Lanty  pulled  off  his  hairy  cap. 

"Troth,  it  was  a  narra  e8ca|>e  yer  honoi  had  this  nif/l,  an' 
the  young  lady.  Oh,  thin,  it's  a  sore  heart  ye'd  have  in  y-at 
breasht  this  minit  av  it  hadn't  been  for  the  young  ma*'«.hcr." 

"  That  gallant  youth,"  the  earl  cried,  flinging  himr^lf  off  hi» 
liorse.  "  I  never  saw  a  braver  deed,  Cecil — Cec ii,  my  darlings 
thank  Heaven  you  are  saved  1  Cecil,  my  dc^j-est,  ace  yoc 
hnrt?" 

He  liftad  the  golden  head  and  kissed  the  -^An,  <rct  fire.  In 
lU  her  sixteen  years  of  life,  Lord  Ruysl?  /  /Ua  never  fully 
realized  how  he  loved  his  only  child  before 

She  had  not  fainted.  The  high  courage  'A  tKe  i*«er'A  c'augh 
'^er  had  upheld  her  through  all.  She  hi  LhiAcl  U/ciself  now 
;nd  imiled  ^ntly. 


1;  * 


StX    VKAtfS   nk^ORH 


W 


Ki,  and 
>,  and 
Oh, 
•x  day 


an' 


In 


**  Not  httrt,  only  stunned  \  littlr  by  thr  frigh.  ir.d  the  irhirl 
•#  tiM  water.     And  you,  papa  ?  " 

"I  am  perfectly  safe,  but — good  Heaven  I  what  ^xi  eicape 
it  has  been.  In  live  soroiuls  you  would  have  been  oyer  that 
horrible  gulf. — Why,  that  hid  has  th<.'  heart  of  a  very  lion  I  the 
nott  gallant  thing  I  ever  saw  doue.  Me  risked  his  life  without 
one  thought,  I  verily  believe.  A  brave  lad— ^  brave  lad.  Ani 
Ae  has,  as  far  as  I  could  ser,  the  aii  of  a  gcntlenian,  too." 

l^nty  overheard,  and  looked  at  his  lordship  with  supreme 
dUdain. 

'*  A  gintleman,  is  it  ?  Faith  he  is  that,  an'  divil  thank  him 
for  it!  Shure  he's  the  O'Donnell — no  less;  an'  iverybody 
knows  the  O'Donnells  wor  kings  ^nd  princes  afore  the  tunc  o' 
Moses.  Gintleman,  irxlade  I  Oh,  thin  it's  himself  that  \\ 
an'  his  father  an'  his  father's  father  afore  him.  Wern't  they 
kings  o'  Ulsther,  time  out  o'  mind,  ai»d  didn't  they  own  ivery 
rood  an'  mile  av  the  counthry  ye're  travelin'  in  the  dap 
o'  Henry  the  Eighth,  till  himself  wid  his  wives  an'  his  black- 
guarden  tuk  it  from  thim  an'  besthowed  it  on  dhirty  divils  lik* 
himself?  My  curse  an'  the  curse  o'  the  crows  on  him  and  thim, 
hot  an'  heavy  this  night  I  " 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  earl ;  "  and  who  are  you^  my  good  fellow  } 
A  retainer  of  that  kingly  and  fallen  house,  I  take  it  1 " 

His  companion  gave  a  second  polite  duck  of  his  hairy  cap. 

"  I'm  Lanty,  yer  honor — Lanty  Laflferty,  av  it's  plazeen  to  ye 
—called  afther  me  grandfather  on  the  mother's  side — God  be 
good  to  him,  dacent  man!  I'm  Misther  Redmond's  own  mar^, 
an'  if  s  proud  an'  happy  I  am  to  be  that  same." 

"You  like  your  young  master,  then  ?  " 

"  An'  why  wouldn't  I  like  him  ?  Is  there  a  man  or  baste  in 
the  County  Fermanagh  wudn't  shed  ther  last  dhrop  for  the 
O'Donnell.  More  betoken  there  isn't  his  like  for  a  free-handed 
bould-hearted  gintleman  from  here  to  the  wurruld's  ind.  Hut 
arrah,  why  nade  I  be  talkin' — sure  yer  honor  knows  for  yerself 

"  I  do,  indeed,  and  I  honor  him  the  mere  for  tlying  to  esca|>e 
my  gratitude.  But  as  we  are  to  be  neiglibors,  1  perceive,  I 
insist  upon  our  being  friends.  Tell  him  it  is  aiy  earnest  wish  - 
diat  of  my  daughter,  too — that  he  shall  visit  us,  or  permit  us  to 
fisit  him.  He  need  not  fear  being  overwhelmed  with  thanks— 
1  feel  what  he  has  done  too  deeply  to  turn  fine  phrases.  A 
brave  lad  and  a  gallant  1  And  now,  if  you'll  guide  us  to  Torry- 
l^cn,  my  good  fellow,  you'll  do  us  a  last  great  service." 

•*  r  J  ao  that  wid  all  the  *  veins,'  "  cried  I.anty  Lafferty ;  "  if  i 


998 


V/V    VfiA/fS    nRFOftH'.. 


i 


1 1 


10  diflUncc  in  lift-  from  this.  Kaix^  it  nd  be  a  ihouuad 
pities  av  the  puny  cr \ihiir  beside  ye  got  cowl:l,  for,  upon 
my  conscience,  it's  more  like  an  angel  she  is  than  &  youDg 
ironruin." 

Torryelen  lay  nestling  in  a  green  hollow  amid  the  nigged 
hills  and  waving  wealth  of  gorse  and  heather.  A  trim  little 
eottage  set  in  the  center  of  a  llower  garden,  and  fitted  up  within 
and  without  with  every  comfort  and  elegance.  The  earl's  valet 
»nd  lady  Cecil's  maid  had  gone  on  in  advance,  and  glorious 
peat  fires,  dry  garments,  and  a  savory  dinner  awaited  them.  For 
Lanty  lafferty,  he  was  regaled  in  the  kitchen,  and  when,  hours 
after,  he  sought  out  his  young  master,  he  was  glowing  anij 
flowing  over  with  praises  of  "the  lord"  and  his  daughter. 

"  Oh,  the  darlin'  o'  the  worruld  !  Wid  a  face  like  roses  an' 
lew  milk,  in'  two  eyes  av  her  own  that  ud  warm  the  very 
cockles  av*  yer  heart  only  to  look  at,  an'  hair  for  all  iver  ye 
•een  like  a  cup  of  coffee  I  " 

"  Coffee,  Lanty  ?  " 

"Ay,  coffee — an'  wirra  !  but  it's  little  av*  the  same  we  get  in 
this  house.  Shure  I  had  a  bea?itifiil  cup  over  there  beyant  an 
hour  ago.  Like  coffee — not  too  sthrong,  mind — an'  with  jist  a 
notion  o'  crame.  That's  its  color;  un',  nuisha,  but  it's  as  purty 
a  color  as  ye' 11  find  in  a  day's  walk.  An'  whin  she  looks  up  at 
ye — like  this  now — out  of  the  tail  av*  her  eye,  an'  wid  a  shmile 
on  her  beautiful  face — oh,  tare  an'  ages  1  av*  it  wudn't  make  an 
ould  man  young  only  to  look  at  her  ! " 

The  young  O'Donnell  laughed.  He  was  lying  at  full  lengtii 
on  the  oak  tloor — before  the  blazing  peat  fire — in  one  of  the 
few  hibitable  rooms  that  remained  of  what  had  once  been 
the  "  Castle  "»f  the  O'Donnell."  He  had  not  troubled  himself 
to  remove  his  wet  clothes — he  lay  there  steaming  unconcemedJy 
before  the  blaze — a  book  at  his  side,  the  "  Iliad  ; " — a  supeto 
specimen  of  youth,  and  strength,  and  handsome  health. 

"  She  appears  to  have  made  an  impression  upon  you,  Lanty 
lo  she  is  as  handsome  as  this,  is  she  ?     I  thought  so  myself^ 
but  wasn't  sure,  and  I  hadn't  time  to  take  a  second  look  before 
his  lordfhip  rode  up,  and  I  made  off." 

'*An'  wudn't  it  have  been  more  reasonable,  now,  and  more 
Christian-hke,  to  have  stood  yer  grotmd  ?  VVliin  an  O'DonneW 
aiver  run  away  from  danger,  anah !  Where's  the  sinse  av^ 
phowtlerin'  away  like  mad  afthcr  it  ?  Shure  he  wanted  t« 
thank  ye,  and  so  did  the  illigant  young  crathur  hersilf." 

"The  very  reason  I  fled,  Lanty.     1  don't  want  their  thaxiki 


SIX    Y/.4R'S   ifFPOXF 


2'^ 


—1  km't  want  them,  for  thai  jajt^w-i.  what  .uc  tli^y  roiaiu^ 
Aer« /or  ?  VVhat  attraction  osn  \.\w)  tliul  in  uur  wi!.'  mryvT/r-in 
district  that  they  shoiilil  risk  their  ncrks  .•>:'ekin!?f  '!^^rryglen  ? 
It  is  to  be  hoped  they  have  got  enoiiji;!)  of  it  by  this  iifJie.'* 

"Troth,  then,  masthcr  durliir,  but  that  ould  lurd's  a  nice> 
quiet,  mighty  civil-spoken  gintlenian,  and  iu:  Joesi  be  sayin'  ht 
wants  you  to  call  and  see  him,  or  give  hi/fi  an'  l)ie  iai/ -hidre*- 
'folleen  lave  to  come  up  here  an'  call  on  ye." 

"On  me — call  on  mef"  The  young  man  (he  was  two 
md-twenty  or  thereabouts)  looked  up  with  a  short  laugh. 
"Oh,  yes,  let  him  visit  O'Oonnell  (Castle,  by  nil  nieans.  Sec 
that  the  luirple  drawing-room  is  swept  and  dusted,  Lanty,  and 
the  cobwebs  bruslied  from  the  walls,  and  the  three  years'  grime 
and  soot  washed  from  the  windows.  See  that  the  footmen  wear 
their  best  liveries  and  put  on  their  brc/gues  for  the  occasion. 
Come  up  here  !  lf[)on  my  life,  this  lord's  daughter  will  be  en- 
chanted with  the  s[)lcndors  of  Castle  O'DonneU.  Lanty,  if 
they  do  happen  to  call,  which  ir;n't  hkely  -and  if  I  happen  to 
be  m,  which  also  isn't  likely — tell  them  I'm  up  in  the  mountains, 
or  in  the  moon  ;  that  I've  gone  to  Ballynahaggart,  or—  the 
devil — that  I'm  dead  and  buried,  if  you  like.  I  won't  sec 
them.     Now  be  otf" 

And  then  Mr.  Redmond  O'DonneU  went  back  to  the  sound- 
ing hexameters  of  his  "  Iliad,"  and  tried  in  poetry  to  forget ; 
but  the  fair  pale  face  of  the  earl's  daughter  arose  between  him 
and  the  page — wet,  wild,  woful,  as  he  h.id  seen  it,  with  the  fair 
streaming  hair,  the  light,  slender  form,  that  he  had  clutched 
from  the  very  hand  of  death.  And  she  was  coming,  ♦^his 
haughty,  high-born,  high  bred  Knglish  patrician,  to  behold  the 
squalor,  and  the  ))Overty,  and  the  misery  of  this  heap  of  ruin 
called  O'DonneU  Castle,  to  make  a  scoff  and  a  wonder  of  Irish 
poverty  and  fallen  Irish  fortunes. 

"  I'M  not  see  them,"  the  youth  resolved,  his  handsome,  boyish^ 
open  face  settling  into  a  look  of  sullen  determination.  '  I 
don't  want  their  visit  or  their  thanks.  I'll  be  olT  up  the 
mountains  to-morrow,  and  stay  there  until  this  fine  English  loni 
and  his  daughter  leave,  which  will  be  before  long,  I'm  thinking, 
A  week  or  two  in  this  savage  district  wil!  suffice  for  them." 

But  still  the  fair  face  haunted  him — the  novelty  o^  such  a 
neighbor  was  not  to  be  got  over.  He  tlung  tl)e  Iliad  away  at 
length,  and  going  out  on  the  grassy  plateau,  looked  down  the 
valley  to  where  the  coitage  lights  twinkled,  far  ard  faint,  tw« 
miles  off.     And  from  hsr  chamber  window,  ere  she  went  to  bed, 


Iff  • 


IP: 

nil 

f 
]  i 

1 

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i 

I'    ' 

^RSh 

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■'i  i, 


i ' 


I'!    >: 


¥» 


AN   IRISH   IDYL 


Lftdy  Cccfl  Clive  gaz<?<1  up  at  the  starlit  sky,  and  ihc  rained 
towers  of  irtiat  had  once  been  a  great  and  mighty  stronghold. 
The  ttonn  had  spent  its  fury  and  passed,  the  autumn  stars,  large 
and  irhite,  shone  out,  the  fresh  liillsidf^  wind  blew  dcwn  in  hei 
(air  wistful  face.  It  was  a  sad  fate,  she  thought  —the  last  scion 
of  a  kingly  and  beggared  race,  brave  as  a  lion  and  penniless  aa 
\  pauper,  dwelling  alone  in  that  ruined  pile,  and  wasting  hir 
jTOUth  and  best  years  amid  the  wilds  of  this  ruined  land. 

"Poor  fellow!"  Lady  Cecil  though^  "So  young  and  sc 
utterly  friendVess  ! — too  proud  to  labor,  rnd  too  poor  to  X\\  e  as 
a  gentleman — wasting  his  life  in  these  savage  ruins !  Papa  mast 
do  something  for  him  when  we  return  to  England.  He  saved 
my  life  at  the  risk  of  his  own,  and  so  heavy  a  debt  of  gratitude 
u  that  Euait  be  paid." 


CHAPTER  X. 


AN  IRISH  IDYI. 


|N  very  small  things  hinge  very  gr^a^  erents. 

A  horse  minus  a  shoe  changed  the  whole  course  o/ 
Redmond  ODonneK  s  life — altered  his  entire  destiny. 
He  neither  went  to  the  mountains  nor  the  moon,  to 
Ballynahaggart  nor  the — dark  majesty  of  the  Inferno.  He 
Btaid  at  home,  and  he  saw  the  Earl  of  Ruysland  and  the  Lady 
Cecil  Clive. 

It  happened  thus :  Going  to  the  stables  next  morning  tc 
saddle  his  favorite  mare,  Kathleen,  he  founu  her  in  nc  1  of  the 
Uacksmith's  services.  I.anty  led  her  off,  and  returning  to  the 
house,  the  young  O'Donnell  came  face  to  face  with  his  English 
visitors. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  mute  with  surprise  and  chagrin. 
He  had  not  dreanrsd  in  the  remotest  way  of  their  coming  so 
soon,  or  so  early,  and — here  they  were  !  Escape  was  impossi* 
ble ;  they  were  before  him  ;  and  by  birth  and  training,  by  race 
and  nature,  the  lad  was  a  gentleman.  He  took  off  his  cap^ 
and  the  youn£  mountaineer  bowed  to  the  carl's  daughter  like  i 
prince.  Ix>rd  Ruysland  advanced  with  extended  hand  and  hit 
fweete9t 


*.*■ 


4%N  rnr^n  rnvr. 


lo\ 


"Ah,  Mi.  CDoi.neiL,  you  fled  ingloriousiy  ;»f-foie  ine  yestet 
daf— BOt  like  «n  CyDonnell,  by  the  bye,  to  tly  even  from  graU 
tade.  No — don't  look  so  alarmed — nobody  is  goii  g  to  thank 
3roiL  You  saved  my  daughter's  life  at  the  imminent  risk  of 
your  own — a  mere  trifle,  not  worth  mentioning.  Cecil,  ray 
dear,  come  and  shake  hands  wi<h  our  young  hero  of  yesterday 
— ah,  I  beg  pardon  !  I  promised  to  call  no  names.  Mr.  Red 
awnd  CDonnell,  Lady  CecU  Clive." 

And  then  two  large,  soft  eyes  of  "liquid  light  "  lfx)ked  up  into 
his,  a  little  gray-gloved  hand  wa?  given,  a  little,  soft,  low  voice 
murmured  something — poor  Mi.  Redmond  O'Donnell  nevei 
knew  what — and  from  that  moment  his  doom  was  sealed. 
Sudden,  perhaps  ;  but  then  this  young  man  was  an  liishman — 
everything  is  said  in  that. 

He  flung  open  the  half-hingeless,  wholly  lockless  front  dooi 
and  led  the  way,  with  some  half-laughing  apology  for  the  tumble 
down  state  of  O'Donnell  Castle. 

"  Don't  blame  us,  Lord  ^uysland,"  the  young  man  said, 
half-gayly,  half-sadly ;  "  blame  your  own  countrymen  and  con- 
fiscation. We  were  an  improvident  race,  perhaps,  but  when 
they  took  our  lands  and  our  country  from  us,  we  let  the  little 
they  left  go  to  rack  and  ruin.  WTien  a  man  loses  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  or  so,  it  doesn't  seem  worth  his  while  to 
hoard  very  carefully  the  dozen  or  so  of  shillings  remaining.  Lady 
Cecil,  will  you  take  this  seat  ?  We  can  give  you  a  fine  view, 
at  least,  from  our  windows,  if  we  can  give  you  nothing  else." 

The  earl  and  his  daughter  were  loud  in  their  praises.     It 
was  fine.     Miles  of  violet  and  purple  heather,  here  and  there 
touched  with  golden,  green,  or  rosy  tinges,  blue  hills  melting 
into  the  bluer  sky,  and  deepest  blue  9f  all,  the  wide  sea,  s{)read 
ing  miles  away,  sparkling  in  the  sunshine  as  if  sown  with  stars 

They  remained  nearly  an  hour.  The  young  seigneur  of  this 
ruined  castle  conducted  them  to  the  gates — nay,  to  the  two 
buge  buttresses,  -yhere  gates  once  had  been — and  stood,  cap  in 
hand,  watchiiig  them  depart.  And  so,  with  the  sunshine  on  hii 
handsome,  tanned  face,  on  his  uncovered,  tall  head,  Lady 
Cecil  bore  away  the  image  of  Redmond  O'Donnell. 

\ou  know  this  story  before  I  tell  it.  She  was  sixteen  y^^n 
of  age — he  had  saved  her  life,  risking  his  own  to  save  it,  with- 
out a  moment's  thought,  and  like  a  true  woman,  she  adored 
bravery  almost  above  all  other  things  in  r  lan.  She  pitied  hin* 
anspeakably,  so  proud,  so  poor,  so  noble  of  birtli  and  ancestry, 
adescendaut  of  kings,  and  a  pauper      And  he  bad  an  eye  likt 


JM 


AN    IHISH    invL, 


an  eagU,  a  Toice  tender  and  spirited  togcihei  and  a  aimie — a 
<unile,  Lady  Cecil  thought,  bright  as  ilie  sunshine  on  ycivk-t 
Jlflter  hills.  It  was  love  at  first  sight — boy  and  ijirl  love,  o* 
course ;  and  the  Earl  of  Ruysland,  shrewd  old  worldling  thai 
he  was,  might  have  known  it  very  well  if  he  had  given  the  sub- 
ject one  thought  But  he  did  not.  He  was  a  great  deal  too 
absorbed  in  his  own  personal  concerns  about  this  time  to  have 
each  solicitude  about  his  little  daughter's  affaires  du  c(eur. 
Lady  Cecil  had  pitied  Redrnoad  ODonnell  for  btnng  a  pauper, 
without  m  the  least  dreaming  she  was  one  herself.  Through 
no  fancy  for  the  country,  throigh  no  desire  to  ameliorate  the 
condition  of  the  inhabitants,  had  my  lord  come  to  Ireland 
Grim  poverty  had  driven  him  hither,  and  was  likely  to  keep 
him  here  for  some  time  to  come. 

His  life  had  been  one  long  round  of  pleasure  and  excess,  of 
luxury  and  extravagance.  He  had  come  into  a  fortune  when 
he  attained  his  majority,  and  squandered  it.  He  came  into 
another  when  he  married  his  wealthy  wife,  and  squandered  that, 
too.  Now  he  was  over  head  and  ears  in  debt.  Clive  Court  was 
mortgaged  past  all  redemption — in  flight  was  his  only  safety ; 
and  he  fled — to  Ireland.  There  was  that  little  hunting  box  of 
his  among  the  Ulster  hills — Torryglen ;  he  could  have  that 
made  habitable,  and  go  there,  and  rough  it  until  the  storm  blew 
over.  Roughing  it  himself,  he  did  not  so  mucli  mind. 
'*  Roughing  it,"  in  his  phraseology,  meaning  a  valet  to  wait 
upon  him,  all  the  elegancies  of  his  life  transported  from  his 
Relgravian  lodgings,  and  a  first-rate  cook — but  there  was  his 
daughter.  For  the  first  time  in  her  sixteen  years  of  life  she 
was  thrown  upon  his  hands.  At  her  birth,  and  her  mother's 
death,  'he  had  been  placed  out  at  rmrse  ;  at  the  age  of  three, 
a  cousin  of  her  mother's,  living  in  Paris,  had  taken  her,  and 
brought  her  up.  Brought  her  up  on  strictly  French  principles 
-—taught  her  that  love  and  courtship,  as  English  girls  under- 
■tand  tliem,  are  indelicate,  criminal  almost ;  that  for  the  pres- 
ent she  must  attend  to  her  books,  her  music,  her  drawing,  and 
embroidery,  and  that  when  the  proper  time  came,  she  would 
receive  her  husband  as  she  did  her  jewelry  and  drerses — from 
the  hand  of  papa.  Papa  came  to  see  her  tolerably  often, 
tovk  her  with  him  once  in  a  while  when  he  visited  his  frjend 
«n4  crony,  Sir  John  Tregenua  ;  and  she  was  told  if  she  were  a 
^Dod  girl  she  should  one  day,  when  properly  grown  up,  ma^/j 
young  Af  thur  and  be  Lady  Tregenna  herself,  and  queen  it  in 
this  old   sea-girt  Cornish   castle.       And    little   Cecil   alwa'/f 


/I/V  flflSH  IDYL 


30J 


titt 


j^ogbed  aad  dhnpieti,  and  danced  away  and  th<.nght  no  n:oic 
%boQt  it.  She  had  seen  very  liiile  of  Arthur  Trcgcnna — she  was 
tomewhat  in  awe  cf  him,  as  hs  s  been  said.  Tie  w  s  so  gi  Rve 
BO  wise,  so  learned,  and  she  was  such  a  frivolous  little  butterfly, 
dancing  in  the  sunshine,  eating  bonbons,  and  sing'ng  frur^r- 
morning  till  night. 

Her  first  grief  was  the  d>,ath  of  the  kind  Oallicized  English . 
fToman  who  had  been  her  second  mother.     Ilcr  father,  on  tli: 
«ve  of  his  Irish  exile,  went  to  Paris,  brought  her  with  him,  an  J 
her  old  bonny  Therdse,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  little 
Lady  Cecil  met  with  an  adventure,  and  became  a  heroine. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  will  call  upon  us  !  "  she  thought  now,  as  she 
walked  homeward  through  tlie  soft  autumn  noonday  -  the  i>er- 
sonal  pronoun  of  course  having  reference  to  the  young  O'Don- 
nell.  "  He  did  not  really  promise,  but  I  think — 1  think  he 
looked  as  though  he  would  like  to  come.  It  would  be  ])leas- 
»nt  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to,  when  i)apa  is  away,  and  he 
tells  me  he  will  be  away  a  groat  deal  at  Bally  -the  town  with 
>he  unpronounceable  Irish  name.  How  very,  very  poor  he 
fieems  ;  his  jacket  was  quite  shabby  ;  his  whole  dress  like  that 
of  the  peasantry.  And  such  a  tumble-down  place — only  fit 
for  owls,  and  bats,  and  rooks.  Papa  (aloud),  you  have  a  great 
deal  of  influence,  and  many  friends  in  England — could  you  do 
nothing  for  this  Mr.  O'Donnell  ?  He  seems  so  dreadfully  poor, 
papa." 

The  earl  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed.  **  My  little, 
unsophisticated  Cecil  I  A  great  deal  of  influence  and  many 
friends  I  My  dear,  I  have  not  influence  enough  to  keep  myself 
out  of  the  bankrupt  court,  nor  friends  enough  to  enable  me  to 
stay  in  England.  Do  you  think  1  would  come  to  this  con 
founded,  hsdf-civilized  land,  if  1  could  stay  away  ?  Poor,  in 
deed  f  Your  Mr.  O'Donnell  isn't  half  as  poor  as  1  am,  for  a! 
least  I  suppose  he  isn't  very  deeply  in  debt." 

His  daughter  looked  at  him  in  sheer  surprise.  "  And  yo\ 
are,  papa  ?  You  poor  ?  Poor  ! "  she  tried  to  comprehend  it, 
shook  her  head,  and  gave  it  up.  "  I  always  Uiought  you  were 
rich,  papa — 1  always  thought  English  peers  had  more  money 
than  they  knew  what  to  do  with.  How  can  we  be  poor — with 
servants,  and  horses,  and  plate,  and — " 

"One  must  have  the  necessities  of  life,  child,"  her  fathei 
broke  in  impatiently,  **  ai»  long  as  they  are  living.  OnR  om'l 
go  back  to  primitive  days,  and  live  in  a  wigwam,  or  in  a  ricketj 
rookery  like  that     I  wish  to  Heaven  one  could — I*t)  try  it     ? 


i 

(■■' ' 

I.: 

I;: 


m\ 


M: 


< : 


1,1 

.1 
ij 


■  i 


■  .A 


l«M 


41^  /R/s/T  /nvr. 


tell  f^m  I  haven't  a  farthing  in  the  world  -  ^du  may  as  v«n 
lewn  it  now  as  later  ;  and  have  more  debts  than  1  can  evei 
pay  off  from  now  to  the  crack  of  doom.  I  don't  want  to  pay. 
While  I'm  in  hiding  here  I'll  ivy  to  compromise  in  soraf  way 
with  my  confounded  creditors  and  the  Jews.  Poor,  in  Jeed  . 
By  Jove  I  we  may  live  and  die  in  this  Irish  exile,  for  what  \ 
fee,"  the  earl  said  with  a  sort  of  groan. 

A  little  smile  dimpled  Lady  Cecil's  rose-bud  face,  a  hap|>} 
light  shone  in  her  gold  brown  eyes.  She  glanced  at  the  littlt 
cottage  nestling  in  its  green  cup,  myrtle  and  clem&.:is  climbing 
over  It,  at  the  fair  fields,  daisy  spangled,  s.t  the  glowing  uplands 
in  their  purple  dress,  at  the  rugged  towers  of  the  old  castle 
boldly  outlined  against  the  soft  sunny  sky,  with  a  face  that 
showed  to  her  at  least  the  prospect  of  an  eternal  Irish  exile 
had  no  terrors. 

"  Very  well,  papa,"  she  said,  dreamily ;  "  suppose  we  do  ? 
It's  a  very  pretty  place,  I'm  sure,  and  if  we  are  poor  it  surely 
will  not  take  much  to  keep  us  here.  While  I  have  you  and 
Th6r^se  and  my  books  and  piano,  /  am  content  to  stay  here 
forever." 

Her  father  turned  and  looked  at  her,  astonishuient  and  dis- 
gust struggling  in  his  face. 

"  Good  Heaven !  listen  to  her !  Content  to  stay  here ! 
yes,  and  live  on  potatoes  like  the  natives,  and  convert  the 
skins  into  clothing,  to  go  barefooted  arid  wear  striped  linsey- 
woolsey  gowns  reaching  below  the  knse,  talk  v^ilh  a  mellifluous 
North  of  Ireland  accent,  and  end  by  marrying  Lanty  Laflferty, 
I  suppose,  or  the  other  fellow  Mickey.  If  you  can't  talk  sense, 
Cecil,  hold  your  tongue  ! " 

Lady  Cecil  blushed  and  obeyed.  Many  Lanty  Laffertyl 
No,  she  would  hardly  do  that.  But  oh,  Cecil,  whence  that  rosy 
blush  ?  Whence  that  droop  of  the  fair,  fresh  face  ?  Whence 
ttuit  sudden  rising  in  your  mind  of  the  tall  figure,  the  bold  flash- 
big  eyes  of  Redmond  O'Donnell?  Is  this  why  the  Irish  exilfl 
is  robbed  of  its  terrors  for  you  ? 

"  No,  no,"  the  earl  said,  after  a  little,  as  his  daughVM  re- 
mained silent.  "  We'll  get  out  of  this  howling  wilderness  ol 
roaring  rivers,  and  wild  young  chieftains,  and  tumble-down  cas- 
tlet  as  speedily  as  we  can.  I  have  one  hope  left,  and  that  is — ^ 
he  looked  at  her  keenly — "  in  you,  my  dear." 

"I,  papa?" 

^  Yet ;  in  your  loarriage.  What's  the  child  blushing  at  ?  In 
&  year  m  two  you'll  be  old  enough,  and  Tregenna  will  b« 


AN  IRISH  ILYL 


y>\ 


feack  \m  England.  Of  course  yuu  know  it  nas  bcrn  an  undrr 
itood  thing  these  many  years  that  you  were  to  many  him  when 
you  grew  up.  Ne  is  perfectly  ready  to  fulfill  the  compact,  aiiii 
certainly  you  will  be.  You  have  been  brought  up  in  a  way  tu 
anderstand  this.  Fregenna  is  rich,  monstrously  rich, and  won'f 
see  his  father-in-law  up  a  tree.  1  give  you  my  word  he  is  mf 
last  hope — your  marriage  with  him,  I  mean.  I  will  try  and 
compromise  with  my  creditors,  1  say,  and  when  things  arc 
•traighteued  out  a  bit  we'll  go  back  to  England.  You  shall  be 
presented  at  court,  and  will  make,  I  rather  fancy,  a  sensation, 
We  will  let  you  enjoy  yourself  for  your  first  season,  and  when  it 
is  over  we  will  marry  you  comfortably  to  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna." 

And  Lady  Cecil  listened  with  drooping  eyelids.  It  seemed 
to  her  all  right — French  girls  married  in  this  judicious  way,  all 
trouble  of  love-making  and  that  nonsense  being  taken  off  iheu 
hands  by  kindly  parents  and  guardians.  She  listened,  and  if 
she  did  not  say  so  in  words  said  in  effect,  with  Thackeray's  hero, 
Mr.  Foker,  "  Very  well,  sir,  as  you  like  it.  When  you  want 
me,  please  ring  the  bell,"  and  then  fell  into  thought  once  more, 
and  wondered  dreamily  if  young  O'Donnell  would  call  that  even- 
ing at  Tonyglen. 

Young  O'Donnell  called.  The  little  drawing-room  of  thf 
cottage  was  lit  with  waxlights,  a  peat  fire  burned  on  the  hearth, 
a  bright-hued  carpet  covered  the  floor,  tinted  paper  hung  the 
walls,  and  pretty  sunny  pictures  gemmed  them.  It  was  half 
drawing-room,  half  library,  one  side  being  lined  with  books.  A 
little  cottage  piano  stood  between  the  front  windows — Lady 
Cecil  sat  at  that — a  writing-desk  occupied  the  other  side — hiH 
lordship  sat  at  that.  Such  a  contrast  to  the  big,  bare,  bleak, 
lonesome  rooms  at  home — their  only  music  the  scamper  of  th< 
rats,  the  howling  of  the  wind,  and  Lant/s  Irish  lilting. 

1  he  contrast  came  upon  him  with  a  pang  of  almost  pain  , 
the  gulf  between  himself  and  these  people,  whose  equal  b) 
lirth  he  was,  had  not  seemed  half  so  sharp  before.  I^ady  Cecil 
in  crisp,  white  muslin  and  blue  ribbons,  with  diamond  drops  in 
het  ears  and  twinkling  on  her  slim  fingers,  seemed  as  far  above 
him  as  some  "bright  particular  star,"  etc  He  stood  in  the 
doorway  for  a  moment  irresolute,  abashed,  sorry Jie  had  come, 
ashanv*d  of  his  shabby  jacket  and  clumping  boots.  The  carl 
with  pen  in  his  hair  like  some  clerk,  looked  up  ftom  hi?  pile  oS 
papers  and  nodded  familiarly. 

**  Ak,  O'Donnell  -how  do  ?  Come  in.  iiceu  cxpcctmg  you 
Vf^TT  bvif,  fan  tee — raiiAt  excuse  me.    Cecil  will  entertain  yom 


n 


|06 


AN  IRtSB  IDYL, 


— i;ivc  kixn  some  music,  my  dear."  And  then  my  lord  went 
back  to  his  papers — bills,  duns,  acconitts,  no  end- -with  knitted 
browi  and  absorbed  mind,  and  for^^'ot  in  half  a  minute  such  ar. 
Individual  aaODonnell  existed. 

Redmond  went  over  to  the  pianu  ;  huw  bright  the  smile  o< 
girlish  pleasure  with  which  the  little   lady  well  omed    hiuo 
"  Would  he  sit  here?— did  he  like  inusit:  ? — would  he  turn  the 
Traces  for  her ? — iKas  he  fond  of  Moore' ;>  melodies?"     In  thii 
biiiliant  and  original  way  the  conversation  commenced. 

"  Yes,  he  liked  music,  and  he  was  very  fund  of  Moore's  mcl. 
xiies.  Would  she  please  go  on  with  that  she  was  singing  ? " 
U  was,  "She  was  far  froni  the  land  where  her  young  hero 
sleeps,"  and  the  tender  young  voice  was  full  of  the  pathos  and 
sweetness  of  the  beautiful  song. 

"  He  lived  for  his  love,  for  hib  country  he  died,"  sang  Lady 
C^ecil,  and  glanced  under  her  long,  brown  lashes  at  the  grave, 
dark  face  beside  her.  "  Robert  Enunet  nmst  have  looked  like 
that,"  she  thought;  "he  seems  as  though  he  could  die  for  his 
:ountry  toe.  I  suppose  his  ancestors  have.  1  wish — 1  wish- 
papa  could  do  something  for  him,  or — Sir  Arthur  Tregenna." 

But  somehow  it  was  unpleasan  to  think  of  Sir  Arthur,  and 
her  mind  shifted  away  from  him.  She  finished  her  song,  and 
discovered  Mr.  O'Donnell  could  sing — had  a  very  fine  and 
highly  cultivated  voice,  indeed,  and  was  used  to  the  piano  ac- 
v'ompaniiaent 

"  1  used  to  sing  with  my  sister,"  he  explained,  in  answer  to 
'ier  involunWy  look  of  surprise.     "  She  plays  very  well." 

"  Your  siste*  I  why  I  thought — " 

"  I  had  none.  Oh,  yes  I  have — very  jolly  little  girl  Rote  is, 
loo— 1  rather  tl^Liik  you  would  like  her.  I  am  quite  sure,"  Mr. 
O'Donnell  blushed  a  little  himself  as  he  turned  this  first  coiu 
pliment,  " she  woul i  like you'^ 

"And  will  she  cune  here?  How  glad  I  am.  Will  she 
come  soon  ?     I  am  co»tain  I  shall  like  her  " 

Redmond  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  sht  will  not  come  here  at  all — never,  in  all 
kUcelihood.  She  b  in  America — in  New  Orleans,  llTing  with 
kir  grandfather.     A  Fienchman,  Lady  Cecil." 

"  A  Frencliman  !      Your  sister's  grandfather  ?  " 

*'Yes — an  odd  mixture,  you  think,"  smiling.  "You  §ec, 
Lacky  Cecil,  when  my  father  wjis  a  young  man,  he  fought  in  the 
If  exJCia  war  luukr  G^meral  Scott.  We  are  a  fighting  race,  i 
oMtet  kifaini  you — war  is  our  trade      Whe«  the  Mexican  wa*' 


AN  IKIHH  IDYL, 


W 


eadedi  he  went  to  New  Orleans,  and  there  he  met  a  >cung  Ud^ 
— French,  and  a  great  heiress — a  l>ca\ity  too,  though  she  was 
my  mothe^.  Well,  l,;u!v  Cecil,  she  ftll  in  love  with  the  dash' 
ing  Irish  trooper — her  tViends  were  frantic,  and  she  eloped  with 
bim.  A  romantic  story,  is  it  not?  He  brought  hei  here — il 
must  have  been  a  contrast  to  the  luxury  of  her  Krer.ch  home. 
Her  father  refused  to  forgive  her — returned  all  her  letters  in- 
opened,  and  here  she  lived  seven  years,  and  htMe  she  died  and 
ras  biuied.  I'll  show  you  her  grave  some  day  in  the  church 
/ard  of  lialljaiahaggart.  1  was  six — Rose  one  year  old.  Hei 
father  heard  of  her  death — not  through  mine  ;  he  never  wrote 
oi  iield  any  connnunication  with  him — and  lie  relented  at  last. 
Came  all  the  way  over  here,  ne^./ly  broken-hearted,  and  wanted 
to  become  reconciled.  But  my  father  sternly  and  bitterly  re- 
filled. He  offered  to  take  Rose  and  me,  and  bring  us  up,  and 
leave  us  his  fortune  v.'hen  he  died ;  but  still  he  was  refused. 
He  returned  to  New  Orleans,  and  three  months  after  Father 
Ryan  of  Ballynahaggart  wrote  him  word  of  my  father's  death. 
He  had  never  held  up  his  head  after  my  mother's  loss. 

''  They  sent  us  both  out  there.  Young  as  I  was,  I  resisted 
— all  tlie  bitterness  of  my  father  had  descended  to  me  ;  but  J 
resisttd  in  vain.  We  went  out  to  New  Orleans,  and  now  I 
look  back  upon  my  life  there  as  a  sort  of  indistinct  dream  or 
miry  tale.  The  warmth,  the  tropical  beauty,  and  the  luxuriance 
vf  my  grandfather's  house,  come  back  to  me  in  dreams  some- 
Ames,  and  I  wake  to  see  the  rough  rafters  and  mildewed  walls 
of  the  old  castle.  1  stayed  there  with  him  until  1  was  nine- 
teen, then  1  refused  to  stay  longer.  He  had  despised  my  father 
and  shortened  my  mother's  life  by  his  cruelty — I  would  not 
3tay  a  dependent  on  his  bounty.  It  was  boyish  bravado,  |>er- 
haps.  Lady  Cecil,  but  1  felt  all  I  said.  I  left  New  Orleans 
and  Rose,  and  came  here,  and  here  I  have  been  running  wild, 
Mid  becoming  the  savage  you  find  me.  But  I  like  the  freedom 
:vf  the  life  in  spite  of  its  poverty ;  I  would  not  exchange  it  for 
she  silken  indolence  and  luxury  of  Menadarva,  my  Louisianian 
i^oine.  And  here  1  shall  remain  until  an  opportunity  offers  to 
go,  as  all  my  kith  and  'cin  have  gone  before  me,  and  earn  my 
iiveliliood  at  the  point  ol  my  sword." 

Lady  Cecil  listened.  She  liked  all  this  ;  she  liked  the  latVs 
spirit  in  refusing  for  himself  that  which  had  been  refused  hii 
ojijthei.     Not  goi>d  sense,  pcmaps,  but  sound  chivalry. 

**  V\>tt  will  go  oat  CO  iuiia,  X  suppose,"  she  said ;  "*  there  ai 
^•^jt  si^s^^iHs  ^  be  6|^uinj|  there  foi  those  who  want  it." 


AN  IRISH  IDYL 


'V 

I 

I 

I 


1 
I 


.  t 


I 


1! 

H 

f.  I ! 
■  f 

i 


;i 


M    ill 


i      I 
1      I 


The  Tomig  man's  brow  darkened. 

"ItKual^""  he  said  ;  "no.  No  O'Donnell  ever  fought  nndci 
tfM  English  flag — 1  will  not  be  the  first.  Years  ago,  Lad} 
Cecfl — two  hundred  and  more — all  this  country  you  see  be 
looffed  to  us,  and  they  confiscated  it,  and  left  us  houseless  an<? 
oatUws.  The  O'Donnell  of  that  day  swore  a  terrible  oaih  tliai 
none  of  his  race  should  ever  fight  for  the  British  invader,  anc 
none  of  them  ever  have.  1  shall  seek  service  under  a  foreign 
flag — it  doesn't  matter  which,  so  that  it  is  not  that  of  your  na 
tion.  Lady  Cecil." 

I^dy  Cecil  pouted — said  it  was  unchristian  and  unforgiving, 
but  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  liked  it  all,  and  wished,  with 
Desdemona,  that  Heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man.  Red 
inond  O'Donnell  lingered  until  the  earl  yawned  audibly  ovei 
his  musty  accounts,  and  the  little  ormolu  clock  ticked  off  half 
past  ten,  and  walked  homeward  under  the  moonlight  and  star 
light,  feeling  that  the  world  had  Kiuklenly  beautified,  and  thi« 
lowly  valley  had  become  a  very  garden  of  Eden,  with  the 
sweetest  Eve  that  ever  smiled  among  the  roses. 

That  first  evening  was  but  the  bfjginning  of  the  end.  The 
visits,  the  music,  the  duets,  reading — the  walks  "  o'er  the  moor 
among  the  heather,"  the  rides  over  the  autumn  hills,  with  Red- 
mond O'Donnell  for  cavalier,  the  sketching  of  the  old  castle — 
the  old,  old,  old,  endless  story  of  youth  and  love,  told  since  the 
world  began — to  be  told  till  the  last  trump  shall  sound. 

Lord  Ruysland  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing — was  as  unsuspi 
cious  as  though  he  were  not  a  "  battered  London  rake  "  and  a 
thorough  man  of  the  world.  His  impecunious  state  filled  his 
mind  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else,  and  then  Cecil  had 
been  so  well  brought  up,  etc.  The  child  must  walk  and  ride, 
and  must  have  a  companion.  Young  O'Donnell  was  a  begeat 
— literally  a  beggar — and  of  course  might  as  well  fix  his  foohsl 
affections  on  one  of  her  Majesty's  daughters  as  upon  that  of  th« 
Earl  of  Ruysland 

He  was  awakened  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  from  his  dreais 
and  his  delusion.  Seven  weeks  had  passed—  the  ides  of  No^ 
vember  had  come — the  chill  autumn  blasts  were  whistlin| 
ditsarily  over  the  mountains.  He  was  sick  and  tired  to  deatl- 
of  his  enforced  exile  ;  affairs  had  been  patched  up  in  some  way, 
a  compromise  effected ;  tie  might  venture  to  show  his  face  onc« 
more  across  the  Channel.  In  a  week  or  two  at  the  farthest  he 
would  start 

He  tat  Gotnplacetitlv  thinking  this  over  aiose  in  the  drawing 


AN  IRISH  IDYL, 


W 


when  the  door  oncnecL     Gregory,  his  inani  annonncci! 
"  Mr.  O'Donnell,"  and  vanished. 

"  Ah,  Redmond,  my  lad,  glad  to  see  yoo.  Come  in— Tjome 
In.     Cecil's  upstairs.     I'll  send  fur  her." 

But  Mr.  O'Dor..  dil  interrupted  ;  he  did  not  wish  Lady  Cecff 
•ant  for — at  least  just  yet  He  wished  to  speak  to  the  eail 
aionc. 

He  was  so  embarrassed,  so  uriike  himself  —bold,  frank,  free, 
•I  he  habitually  was — that  Lord  Ruysland  looked  at  him  it 
lorprise.     That  look  was  enough — it  told  him  all. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  he  thought,  "  what  an  ass  I  have  been. 
Of  course,  he  has  fallen  in  love  with  her — arn't  matrimony  and 
murder  the  national  pastimes  of  this  delightful  island  ?  And 
very  likely  she  has  fallen  in  love  with  him — the  young  savage 
is  so  confoundedly  good-looking." 

He  was  right.     While  he  sat  thinking  tins,  Redmond  O'Doii 
nell  was  i»ouring  into  his  ear  the  story  of  hi?  love  and  his  hopes 

"It  was  his  madness  to  worship  her  "  ^  .c  was  very  young 
and  inclined  to  hyperbole),  "  to  adore  her.  He  was  poor,  he 
knew,  but  he  was  young,  and  the  world  was  all  before  him.  He 
would  wait — ay,  as  long  as  his  lordship  pleased-  he  would  win 
a  name,  a  fortune,  a  title,  it  might  be,  and  lay  them  at  her  feet 
One  O'Donnell  had  done  it  in  Spain  already — what  any  man 
had  done  he  could  do.  His  birth,  at  least,  was  equal  to  hers. 
He  asked  nothing  now  but  this  ;  Only  let  him  hope — let  him  go 
forth  into  the  world  and  win  name  and  fame,  lay  then  at  her 
feet,  and  claim  her  as  his  wife.  He  loved  her — no  cne  in  this 
world  would  ever  love  h  -t  again  better  than  he."  A  id  then  he 
broke  down  all  at  once  and  turned  away  and  wa  .ed  for  his 
answer. 

The  earl  kept  a  grave  face—  it  spoke  volumes  for  his  admir- 
able training  and  high  good  breeding,  lie  did  not  laugh  it 
ttiis  wild  young  enthusiast's  face  ;  he  did  not  fly  into  a  passion  ; 
J*e  did  nothing  rude  or  unpleasant,  and  he  diil  not  make  a  scene. 

"Mr.  O'Donnell's  affection  did  his  daughter  much  honor,' 
}tz  said ;  "  certainly  he  was  her  equal,  lier  superior,  indeed,  k; 
point  of  birth  ;  and  as  to  making  a  name  for  himself,  and  win 
ning  a  fortune,  of  course,  there  could  not  be  a  doubt  as  to  thai 
with  a  young  man  of  his  indomitable  courage  and  determina- 
tion. But  was  it  possible  Lady  Cecil  had  not  aheady  told  \\v^ 
she  w.\s  engaged?" 

"  Eociged  !  "  The  young  man  could  but  just  (;asp  thf  ysG\\ 
pdle  tfid  w9d      "  Engaf^l }  " 


no 


AN  iKisH  ant. 


I 


1   • ' 

'      I! 


•*llDit  ceftainly— from  hci  vt^ry  rhiMhotxl- -^o  t^c  wffllhj 
Cornish  b»ronf.'t,  Sir  A.thm  rr-^v'^^'i  ^^»"  *^''^*^  iMven  hci 
promise  to  marry  hiiu  of  her  own  fio«?  will  the  wc'dijig,  in  aii 
probability,  would  takr  place  upon  hei  ci^htfcntK  birtluiay 
Really  now  it  was  quilt  ii.exr,us;!])I«:  of  Qucfiiij  nol  to  Havc 
mentioned  tliis.  hux  it  was  jnsi  possible -she  was  so  vcrj 
fountf,  and  Mr.  O'bonucll  was  a  ;iian  of  honor  -pc, haps  h* 
vas  doing  him  injustice  in  thinkiutj;  he  had  made  a  dedaratioTi 
to  her  in  person  ?  " 

"No."     Young  O'Donnell  had  not.      lie  was  so  white,  so 
irild,  io  dcBpairing-lookiiig,  that  the  carl  wai;  getting  nlimied 
A  scene!  and  oh,  /wrt  he  abiiorred  scenes!     *'  He  had  not 
spoken  to  her  on  the  subject-  he  never  had — he  wished  to  ob 
Uin  her  father's  consent  first." 

The  earl  grasped  his  hand  with  etTusion. 

"My  lad,  you're  a  gentleman  from  head  to  foot.   I  arn  proud 
of  you  I     Have  you-  has  she — I  mean  do  you  think  your  atTec 
don  is  returned?     Oh  !  don't  l)lush  an<l  look  modest — it  i.sn't 
the  most  unlikely  thing  on  earth.     Do  you  think  Cecil  returns 
jrour  very — ah  I  'pon  my  life — ardent  devotion  ?" 

Young  O'Donnell  stood  looking  handsiome  and  modest  before 
him. 

"  He  did  not  like  to  say — but  he  hoped." 

"Oh,  of  course  you  do,"  the  earl  sujiplemented,  "and  ver) 
Jtrongly  too.  Well,  my  lad,  you  »l*'t;erve  something  for  the  ad 
mirable  and  honorable  manner  in  winch  you  have  acted,  and 
you  shall  have  your  reward.  Cecil  shall  wait  for  you  iff  she 
wishes  it !  No,  don't  thank  nie  yet ;  hear  me  out.  You  arc 
to  spend  this  evening  here,  are  you  not  ?  Well,  as  you  hav»r 
been  silent  so  long,  be  silent  yet  a  little  longer.  Don't  say  a 
word  to  her.  To-morrow  morning  I  will  lay  al)  this  before  hei 
mys^lf^  and  if  she  prefers  the  penniless  Irishman  io  the  rid) 
Comifihman,  why,  Heaven  forbid  /  should  force  her  affections  ! 
1  can  trust  to  you  implicitly,  1  know,  and  this  time  to-morrow 
oome  over  to  see  us  again,  and  you  shall  have  ^our  answer." 

He  would  not  listen  to  the  young  man's  ardent  thanks  ;  he 
pushed  him  good-naturedly  away  and  arose. 

"  Thank  mc  to-morrow^,"  he  said,  "  if  Queenie  prefer*  love 
ki  a  cottage  to  thirty  thousan*!  a  v<ar--r.ot  before.'' 

The  sneer  in  his  v<»ice  was  inv,)erce])tible,  but  it  was  there. 
Half  an  howT  after  the  <arl  sought  out  Hregory,  his  valet  and 
itMiacer. 

'*We  leave  al  daf^w'^-ak  to-iuonow  mon.ing,  Gregory,"  he 


I:      I 


AN  IRISH  IDYL, 


31 


he 


Itrv^e 


If 


hf 


mU  ;  **  Ladj  Cecil  and  I.  You  will  remain  behind,  pack  ii| 
ererything,  and  follow  latei  in  the  day.  Not  a  word,  however, 
to  Lady  Cecil." 

That  evening — the  last — when  Reilmond  O'DonnelVs  hair  ia 
gray,  I  fancy  it  will  stand  out  distinct  from  all  other  ever.ingf 
m  hit  life.  The  wax-lit  drawing  room,  with  its  gay  green  car- 
pet, iti  sparkling  firo,  its  pictures,  its  wild  natural  tlowera,  its 
books,  its  piano.  Lord  Ruysland,  with  a  paper  in  his  hand, 
■eated  in  his  easy  chair  and  watching  the  young  people  covertly 
from  over  it ;  Lady  Cecil  at  the  piano,  (he  candle-light  stream- 
ing over  her  fair  blonde  face,  her  iloatinggclden  hair,  her  silvery 
silk  dress,  her  rings  and  rib])ons.  In  dreary  bivouacs,  in  the 
silence  and  depth  of  African  midnight,  this  picture  came  lack 
as  vividly  as  he  saw  it  then.  In  desolate  desert  marches,  in  the 
fierce,  hot  din  of  battle,  it  flashed  upon  him.  Lying  delirious 
in  the  fever  of  gunshot  wounds,  in  Algerian  hospitals,  it  wasot 
this  night,  of  her  as  he  saw  her  then,  he  raved. 

She  sang  for  him  all  the  songs  he  liked  best.  He  leaned  over 
the  piano,  his  eyes  on  that  fairest  face,  hi"  ears  drinking  in  that 
Nearest  melody,  silent,  happy.  They  rarely  found  much  to  say 
to  one  another  when  papa  was  present ;  they  had  got  past  the 
talking  stage,  and  one  word  and  two  or  three  looks  did  the 
business  now.  There  was  music,  and  silence,  and  bliss  ;  and 
It  ten  o'clock  it  was  all  over,  and  time  for  hirn  to  go. 

The  last  night  I  She  gave  him  her  hand  shyly  and  wistfully 
«t  parting,  and  went  up  to  her  room.  The  earl  gave  him  a 
friendly  clasp. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "until  tomorrow, 
Redmond,  my  lad,  good-night  and  au  rami" 

The  November  wind  was  howling  wildly  through  the  moon- 
light-flooded earth  and  sky.  He  did  not  see  this  cold  splendor; 
he  saw  nothing,  thought  of  nothing  now  but  lovely  Cecil  Clivc 

What  a  night  that  was — what  a  long  lossing  night  of  joy,  dl 
lope,  of  fear,  of  longing.  He  did  no£  despair — ^he  was  youn« 
and  sanguine,  and  hope  had  the  best  of  it.  He  knew  she  ioveo 
kim ;  had  not  looks,  smiles,  and  blu.3hes,  a  thousand  and  one 
tkings  pen  and  ink  can  never  tell,  assured  him  of  it  ?  and  what 
to  an  angelic  being  like  that  was  the  dross  of  wealth,  that  it 
ihoidd  stand  between  two  devoted  hearts  ?  Thirty  thousand  % 
year — the  Comishman  had  that — how  he  hated  that  Comish- 
nan  I  Well,  thirty  thousand  per  annum  is  a  good  round  suni, 
kst  there  was  weisdth  in  the  world  "or  ihe  seeking,  and  the 
MMm  oC  Harenles  w«re  as  nothing  compared  to  what  he  wat 


SI9 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


W. 


>    It 


ttM/kf  io  ondergo  for  her  salkc.  An  O'Dunnell  had  made  hif 
mark  in  Spain — McMahon  ir  France — a  Wellington  ir.  England 
<— ^  Irishmen  good  and  true  ;  what  they  had  done  he  would 
do.  Yes,  the  Comishman  and  his  fortune  might  go  au  diabU, 
She  would  be  true  to  her  love  and  to  him  ;  she  would  trust  hins 
•nd  wait 

Next  morning,  lest  he  should  be  tempted  to  break  his  yrom- 
1m,  and  his  feet,  in  spite  of  him,  take  him  to  the  cottage,  he 
nounted  Kathleen  and  went  galloping  over  the  hills  and  far 
away  with  the  first  peep  of  sunrise.  The  afternoon  was  fai 
advanced  when  he  returned;  the  last  slanting  rays  of  the 
autumn  sunset  were  streaming  ruby  and  orange  over  the  smil- 
ing moors  as  he  knocked  at  the  cottage  door. 

It  was  opened  by  grave,  gentlemanly  Mr.  Gregory.  Mr. 
Gregory  in  hat  and  greatcoat,  and  everywhere  litter,  and 
dust,  and  confusion.  Carpets  taken  up,  pictures  taken  down, 
packing  cases  everywhere — an  exodus  evidently. 

He  turned  pale  with  sudden  terror.  What  did  it  mean  ? 
Where  was  she  ?  His  heart  was  throbbing  so  fast,  it  seemei) 
tr  stop  his  veiy  breath. 

"  Where  is  Lord  Ruysland  ?  "  He  turned  almost  savagely 
apon  Gregory,  with  pale  face  and  excited  eyes,  but  all  the  wild 
Irishmen  from  Derry  to  Connaught  were  not  going  to  upset  the 
equanimity  of  a  ^ell-trained  English  valet. 

"Gone,  Ml.  Redmond,  sir — a  sudding  summons,  I  believe 
it  was.  His  lordship  left  about  nine  o'clock  this  morning,  sir 
— Lady  Cecil  halso.  Which  there  is  a  note  for  you,  Mr.  Red- 
mond, sir,  which  no  doubt  hexplains.  Wait  one  moment,  hif 
fou  please,  and  I'll  fetch  it." 

He  never  ipoke  a  word.  He  leaned  against  the  door-post, 
feeling  sick  and  giddy,  all  things  seeming  in  a  mist.  Mr. 
Gregory  returned,  the  note  in  his  hand,  a  look  of  mingled 
amusement  and  pity  struggling  with  the  national  and  pro- 
fessional gravity  of  a  Briton  and  a  valet.  Did  he  suspect  the 
truth  ?  Most  likely — servants  know  eveiything.  He  placed  it 
fai  his  hand  ;  the  young  man  went  forward  a  pace  or  two,  and 
the  white  door  shut  very  quietly  and  decidedly  behind  hiaL 
He  tore  it  open ;  it  contained  an  inclosure.  The  earl  had 
very  little  to  say — half  a  dozen  lines  held  Redmond  O'Donnell's 

Ltence  of  doom. 

**  If  T  Drae  Bot  :— I  spoke  to  Cecil  af^  you  k^     It  is  m  I 

havt  dooarred  «fo«rael£     Her  promise  binds  her  ;  riM  hm  •» 

'      l»^<«epkk.     Aad  ihc  had  DO  idea  of  Om  mut  of /««r 


AN  IRISH   /nVL 


3n 


iloiafl  with  me  in  thinking  it  t«^  im  all  (Mu-tic^  Mic  Ahould  gi.  at  cAce— 
itii#f  meeting  c<juld  l*c  hut  onil>arrassin^  to  Ik  th.      With  real  rejjTe<.\ 
■id  bwt  wUhaifor  your  future,  I  am,  my  dear  >)oy,  sincerely  yours, 

**  KUVSLAHD." 

The  inclojed  was  in  the  slim,  Italian  tracery  of  Lady  Cecil 
—strangely  cold  and  heartless  words. 


••  M«n  Ami : — I  asa  inexpressibly  (li.stresse<l.  Papa  has  told  mt  aU. 
What  he  laid  to  you  in  true.  My  promise  is  (^vcn  and  must  Ite  kept.  It 
b  bwt  that  I  should  go.  Karewell  t  My  eternal  gratitude  and  /nVwW. 
tJU/  are  yoonu  Ckcil." 

Only  that — so  cold,  so  hollow,  so  heartless,  so  false !  The 
golden  sunshine,  the  green  line-trees,  the  violet  heath  turned 
black  for  an  instant  before  his  eyes.  Then  he  crumpled  ihf 
letters  in  his  hand  and  walked  away. 

Mr.  Gregory  was  watching  from  the  window.  Mr.  Gregor) 
«w  him  stagger  like  a  drunken  man  as  he  walked,  and,  some 
twenty  yards  from  the  cottage,  Hing  himself  downward  on  the 
iraving  heath,  and  He  there  like  a  stone.  Mr.  Gregory's  nias- 
culine  sympathies  weie  touched. 

"Pore  young  chap,"  he  soliloquized  "  Master's  been  and 
^;iven  him  the  slip.  He's  fell  in  love  with  her  ladyship,  and 
this  'ere's  the  hupshot.  Sarves  him  right,  of  coorse — jyjor  as  a 
church  mouse — still  he's  a  nice  young  felUir,  and  I  (piite  pities 
nim.  I  remember 'ow  1  felt  myself  when 'Arriet  Lelachur  long 
ago  jilted  rrn." 

He  lay  there  for  hours.  The  sun  had  set,  the  night,  with  its 
stars  and  winds,  had  come,  when  he  lifted  his  head  off  his  aim, 
and  Mr.  Gregory  and  the  packing  cases  were  miles  aw^y.  Hit 
haggard  eyes  fell  on  the  notes  he  still  held,  and  with  a  fieict 
imprecation  he  tore  them  into  atoms  and  scattered  them  fa< 
and  wide. 

"  And  so  shall  I  tear  her — false,  heartless,  mocking  jilt — Cirt 
if  my  life.  Oh,  God  1  to  think  that  every  smile,  every  word, 
•very  look  was  mockery  and  deceit — that  she  was  fooling  m« 
from  the  first,  and  laughing  at  my  presumptuous  folly,  wmle  I 
thought  her  an  angeL  And  /ig — while  1  live  Til  never  tniat 
!iian  or  woman  again  !  " 

Are  we  not  all  unconsciously  theatrical  in  the  supreme  hotiri 
of  our  lives.     He  was  now,  although  there  was  a  heart-sob  in 
trtry  word.     And  with  tl^m   the  boys  heart  went  out  fioai 
Eiidnnwd  O'Donnell,  and  never  came  bock  a^pin. 
U 


V4 


iTS  khfCrUSH  RPAMNQ. 


CHAPTER   XI. 


ITS   KNGLISH    READING. 


I  '■  ;■ 


if 


made. 


■,    t 


|ADY  CECIL  tfesn  was  h>^artless — you  My,  •  ftn.  % 
deceitful  flirt,  from  first  to  last — luring  with  iiv40oei^( 
eyes  and  soft,  childish  smile,  even  at  sixteen,  t«nly  Ic 
fling  her  victim  away  the  moment  her  conquest  wt< 
Wait. 

She  had  bidden  Redmond  good  night.  There  vas  a  tender, 
tremulous  happiness  in  the  soft  hazel  eyes  that  watched  hii» 
out  of  sight,  a  faint  half-smile  on  the  rosy,  parted  lips.  Shi.*: 
scarcely  knew  what  her  new  sky-bliss  meant ;  she  never  thought 
of  falling  in  love — was  she  not  to  marry  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  if 
—only  she  knew  she  had  never,  never  been  half  so  happy  bf- 
fore  in  all  her  life,  and  that  Ireland  was  fairer  and  lovelier  than 
die  "  Islands  of  the  Blessed"  themselves. 

"Good-night,  papa,"  she  said,  taking  her  candle  and  turning 
to  go. 

"Oh! — wait  a  moment,  Queenie,  will  you?"  her  fat'ieff 
said,  somewhat  hurriedly  ;  "  I  want  you  to  do  a  little  copying 
lor  me  before  you  go  to  bed." 

"  Copying  ?  "  She  sat  down  her  candle  and  looked  at  hira 
JD  wonder.  He  did  not  choose  to  meet  those  large,  surprised 
brewn  eyes. 

"  Yes,  my  dear.  Don't  look  alarmed  ;  only  a  line  or  two 
Here  it  is.     Copy  it  off,  word  for  word,  as  I  dictate." 

"  Write  *  Mon  Ami:  " 

She  wrote  it 

"  /  am  inexpressibly  distressed.  Papa  has  told  me  eUh 
What  he  has  said  to  you  is  true.  My  promise  is  given  and 
mutt  be  kept.  It  is  best  that  I  should  ^o.*'  Here  Lady  Cecil 
came  to  a  sudden,  alarmed  stop,  and  looked  up  with  a  greatl) 
disturbed  face.  "  Go,  papa,"  she  said  ;  "  what  does  all  tiii* 
mean?" 

"Be  kind  enough  to  write  on,  and  never  mind  asking  que* 
dons,"  her  fatb'/r  retorted,  imj^tiently  ;  "  *  best  that  1  should 
fo.'  You  ha>v«  that?  Go  on  then.  ^  Fareit^ell /  Afy  eternal 
gratitude  and  friendship  ar:  yours:  Now  sign  it  *  Cecil: 
That  will  do.  Thanks,  my  dear.  What  a  very  pretty  hajxl 
foo  write,  by  the  way." 

kii  AtBL^ft  began,  gtill  whh  tiMl  disfeusbed  hxx^ 


tTs    H.j\f<;i.lSH   RP.ADING. 


31$ 


fur? 


vVhal   (iocs   it   nicaii  ?    1    doi't 


'^wbom  it  this  vrrittcn 
aaderstand" 

"Don't  you?  I'lease  don't  isk  too  luany  qucstiooft— 
curioaity  has  ever  been  the  banc  of  your  sex.  Kemfmber  £▼« 
and  Lot's  wife,  and  be  warned.  TeihaiJS  1  want  your  auto- 
graph. Apropos  of  nothing,"  he  was  very  busily  folding  tbe 
note  now.  *♦  'rh6r6se  will  wake  you  early  tomorrow  morning 
We  start  immediately  after  breakfast  for  Enniskillen." 

"  Enniskillen  !"  She  said  it  with  a  sort  of  gasp.  ''F^o, 
ire  we — going  away  ?  " 

He  laid  down  the  letter,  and  looked  her  full,  keenlv ,  steadily 
in  the  face.  Her  eyes  shifted  and  fell  under  that  pitiless 
icnitiny. 

"  And  if  we  are,  Queenie — what  then  ?  If  I  had  said  we 
were  going  to  the  antipodes  you  would  hardly  look  more  aghast. 
Vour  attachment  to — ah,  Torryglen,  of  course — must  be  very 
strong,  my  dear,  since  the  thought  of  leaving  it  affects  you 
thus." 

She  shrank  away  from  his  sneer  as  though  he  h-ad  struck  her. 
Her  sensitive  hps  quivered,  her  face  flushed.  Again  she  took 
her  candle  and  turned  to  go. 

**  Good-night,  papa."  Her  voice  sounded  husky,  and  the 
earl  watched  the  slight,  fragile  figure  ascnding  the  stairs,  with 
compressed  lips  and  knified  brows. 

"  Not  one  second  too  soon,"  he  thought.  "Another  w^eek 
Aid  the  mischief  v/ould  have  b('en  irrevocably  done.  Giwer. 
a  lonely  country  house,  and  two  nioderntely  well-looking  peo- 
ple, thrown  constantly  into  ^propinquity,  a  love  atfair  invariably 
follows.  My  young  friend  O'Donnell,  I  tiiank  you  for  speak 
ing  in  tbe  nick  of  time  You  have  a  pride  that  bears  no  pro 
portion  to  your  purse  or  prospects,  and  1  think  those  two 
polite  Qttle  notes  will  etfectually  wind  up  your  business." 

\aAy  Cecil  slept  very  little  that  night— a  panic  had  fecizeJ 
her.  (loing  away  !  did  he  know  ?  would  she  see  hiiu  to  say 
good'by  before  she  left  ?  would  they  ever  meet  again  ?  Anc 
that  note — what  did  that  cold,  formal  note  mean  ?  Whom  waa  is 
for  ?  Her  cheeks  were  quite  white,  her  eyes  heavy,  her  step 
alow,  her  tones  languid,  when  ahe  descended  to  breakfast.  She 
mk^  alreadyin  her  riding-habit,  and  the  horses  were  saddhidand 
waiting.  During  breakfast  her  eyes  kept  turning  to  the  doc? 
suTid  windows-— up  tlie  valley  road  leading  to  the  O'DoRneli'g 
niia<^<'d  keep.  Would  he  comer  The  earl  saw  and  snule^ 
gnioly  to  liui)«elf 


4I« 


ITS  ENGLISH  READING. 


W 


■t'J 


;, 


)     i 


M 


No,  my  dear,**  he  said,  inwardly.  **  You  strain  yott  pretty 
brown  eyes  for  nothing — he  will  not  conae.  A  handsome  laid 
tod  a  brave,  but  you  have  looked  your  last  upon  him." 

They  arose  from  breakfast — the  hour  of  departure  had  come, 
fhen  out  of  sheer  desperation  Lady  Cecil  gathered  courag9 
and  spoke  with  a  great  gulp  : 

"  Papa — does — does  Mr.  Donnell  know  we — "  She  stopped 
Viable  to  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Mr.  O'Donnell,"  with  bland  urbanity,  "  well,  I'm  not  quite 
f<;Mitive  whether  I  mentioned  to  him  yesterday  our  departure 
or  not  1  shall  leave  him  a  note,  however,  of  thanks  and  fare- 
irelL  Of  course  it  wasn't  necessary  to  teU  him,  my  dear — a 
/eiy  fine  fellow  indeed,  in  his  sphere,  and  nmch  superior  to 
the  rest  of  the  peasantry — a  little  presumptuous,  though,  I 
fancy  of  late.  Come,  Cecil — the  horses  wait,  and  *  time  is  on 
the  wing.' " 

What  could  she  say  ? — what  could  she  do  ?  There  was  pas- 
sionate rebellion  at  her  heart — pain,  love,  regret,  remorse. 
Oh,  whal  would  he  think  ?  how  basely  ungrateful  she  would 
appear  in  his  eyes.  How  unkind — how  cruel  of  papa,  not  to 
have  spoken  last  night  before  he  left,  and  let  them  say  good-by, 
at  least.  She  could  hardly  see  the  familiar  landscape  for  the 
passionate  tears  tliat  hlled  her  u^es.  Here  was  the  river — only 
a  placid  stream  now,  where  he  had  so  heroically  risked  his  life 
to  save  hers,  yonder  the  steep,  black  cliff  up  which  he  had 
scrambled,  at  the  risk  of  his  neck,  to  gatlier  a  cluster  of  holly 
she  had  longed  for.  There  were  the  grim,  rugged,  lonely 
tovers  and  buttresses  of  the  once  grand  old  Irish  castle,  there 
Ihe  spot  where  she  had  sat  by  his  side  hundreds  of  times 
sketching  the  ruins.  And  now  they  were  parting  without  one 
word  of  farewell— parting  forever  1 

They  rode  on ;  the  tower  was  reached.  All  the  way  aha 
lad  scarcely  spoken  one  word — all  the  way  she  had  been 
jratching.  watching  vainly  for  him.  They  dined  at  Ballynahag- 
gart,  and  started  in  the  afternoon  for  Enniskillen.  They  maae 
fto  stay — only  that  one  night ;  in  two  days  they  were  ia 
London. 

They  remained  a  week  in  the  metropolis,  at  the  letli^nce  of 
%  friend.  The  earl  returning  home  to  dinner  one  erening, 
soa|;ht  out  his  daughter,  with  an  interesting  item  of  news.  In 
SUifent  Street  that  day  he  had  come  suddenly  upon  whom  did 
.Jm  think  ? — their  young  Irisii  friend,  Redmond  O'DonnelL 

IKie  had  been  sitting  at  the  window  lookiBg  oat  at  the  t^ntii 


iT&   ENGLISH  READING, 


s»; 


At  the  souiui  of  that  name  she  turned  suddenly  How 
wan  and  thin  she  had  grown  in  a  week — how  dull  the  brioht 
brown  eyes.  Now  a  sudden  light  leaped  into  them — a  swilt, 
hot  flush  of  joy  swept  over  her  face. 

"  Papa  1  Redmond  !     You  saw  him  ! " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  Lord  Ruysland  said,  carelessly,  "  and  look. 
faig  very  well,  too.  1  asked  him  to  come  here — said  you  would 
be  glad  to  see  him — very  sorry  at  having  to  leave  Ireland 
without  an  opportunity  of  saying  good-by,  and  all  that — bat  he 
declined" 

"  He — declined  !"  The  pale  lips  could  but  just  shape  the 
words. 

"  Yes,  and  rather  discourteously,  too.  Said  he  did  not  mean 
to  stay  in  London  over  a  week,  and  that  his  time  would  be 
fiiUy  occupied.  He  did  not  even  send  you  a  message  \  he 
seemed  filled  with  boyish  elation  over  his  own  affairs.  He  is 
going  out  to  Algiers,  he  tells  me,  to  seek  active  service  under 
the  French  flag.  These  hot-headed  Irishmen  are  always  '  spoil- 
ing for  a  fight.'  He  seemed  in  great  spirits,  and  quite  wild  to 
be  off.  But  he  might  have  found  time  to  call,  though,  all  the 
same,  I  think,  or  even  send  you  a  message.  It's  'out  of  sight, 
out  of  mind,'  with  these  hare-brained  sort  of  people,  though, 
always.  Go  to  the  dickens  to  do  any  one  a  service,  and  for- 
get them  for  good  the  instant  they  are  out  of  their  sight." 

Dead  silence  answered  him.  He  tried  to  see  his  daughter's 
face,  but  it  was  averted,  and  the  gathering  twilight  hid  it.  He 
need  not  have  feared.  vShe  had  all  an  English  girl's  "  pluck." 
Her  eyes  were  flashing  now,  one  little  hand  clenched  hard,  hei 
teeth  set.  She  had  liked  him  so  much — so  much,  she  had  not 
known  one  happy  hour  since  they  had  left  Ulster,  for  thinking 
of  him  ;  and  now  he  was  in  London,  and  refused  to  come  to  sec 
her — talked  to  her  father,  and  would  not  even  send  his  remem- 
brances— on  the  eve  of  departure  forever,  it  might  be,  and  could 
find  no  time  to  call  and  say  good-by.  She  had  thought  of  hinr 
by  da>  and  dreamed  of  him  by  night,  and  he  returned  it- 
tike  this! 

•*  rU  never  think  of  him  again — never  ! "  she  said,  under  hei 
breath.  "  I  am  glad,  glad,  glad  he  does  not  dream  how  muci) 
(—1  like  him  I " — a  great  sob  here.  *'  I'll  never  think  of  hiir> 
«gaii&,  if  I  can." 

If  she  could  1  On^  thing  is  certain,  she  never  uttered  hit 
aune  from  that  hour,  and  slowly  the  sparkle  came  back  to  he; 
l^re%  the  old  ii^^oiM  ring  to  her  kkugh,  and  La  Reint  Blan^lu 


ir 


,sti 


SIS 


rrs  Ri^fiUSH   KKAniNG. 


fill?!' 
11'/'  I 


ii:  ; 


i 
i 


•i    ■ 


\\ 


her  own  bright,  glad  bcif  once  niuic.  '*  Love's  vtuajt 
dream"  \^aA  ceme  and  gone,  had  been  born,  and  died  a  natural 
death,  and  was  decently  bmied  out  of  sit^ht.  But  this  also  i» 
certain — no  second  dream  ever  came  to  replace  it.  '^/ood 
men  and  true  bowed  down  and  fell  before  Lord  Ruysland's 
handsome,  dark-eyed  daughter ;  names,  titles,  hearts,  fortune 
Mkd  coronets  were  laid  at  her  feet,  to  be  rejected.  The  wotU 
tould  not  understand.  What  did  she  mean  ?  What  did  sh? 
expect  ?  She  felt  a  sort  of  weary  wonder,  herself.  Why  conlv 
■he  not  return  any  of  this  love  so  freely  lavished  upon  her  i^ 
Men  had  asked  her  to  be  their  wife  whose  atfection  and  naiiss 
would  have  done  honor  to  any  woman,  but  she  rejected  them  all, 
Many  of  them  touched  her  i)ity  and  her  pride — not  one  he: 
heart  Her  father  looked  on  patiently,  quite  resigned.  None 
of  these  admirers  were  richer  than  his  favorite.  Sir  Arthur  Tre- 
genna.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  when  the  time  came,  she  should 
marry. 

In  all  these  years  of  conquest,  and  triumph,  and  pleasure  she 
had  heard  nothing  of  or  from  h"r  Irish  hero.  Long  before,  per- 
haps, his  grave  might  have  been  made  out  yonder  under  the  burn- 
ing Arab  sky ;  dead  or  alive,  at  least  he  was  lost  forever  to  her. 
SHie  could  even  smile  now  as  she  looked  back  upon  that  pretty, 
poetic,  foolish  idyl  of  her  first  youth- smile  to  think  what  a 
hero  he  had  been  in  her  eyes — how  willingly  she  would  have 
ffiven  "all  for  love,  and  thought  the  world  well  loit  " — smile  to 
mink  what  simpletons  love-sick  girls  of  sixteen  arc. 

•  ••*••••• 

And  now  six  years  were  past,  and  he  stood  before  her.  Stoo<j 
before  her  changed  greatly,  and  yet  the  same.  It  wa.^  a  su- 
perbly-«oldierly  figure — tall,  stalwart,  erect,  strong  but  not  stout 
— ^muscular,  yet  graceful  The  fresh,  beardless  face  of  the  boy 
she  remembered  she  saw  no  longer  ;  the  face  of  the  man  w*p 
darkly  bronzed  by  the  burning  Algerian  sun  ;  a  most  beconiin|^ 
most  desirable  auburn  beard  and  mustache  altered  the  whola 
expression  of  the  lower  part.  It  had  a  stern,  something  of  s 
tired  look,  the  lips  a  cynical  airve,  the  blue  eyes  a  keen,  haid 
light,  very  different  from  their  old  honest  simplicity  and  frank- 
Qess.  No ;  this  bronzed,  bearded,  Algeriin  chasseur  was  not 
^  Redmond  O'Donnell  she  had  known  and  liked  sm^  well,  any 
loore  than  she  was  the  blushing,  tender  heart  of  six  f  *.ars  ago. 

She  stood  for  an  instant  looking  at  him.  The  surpri.se  of 
(seeing  him  htre^  as  suddenly  as  though  he  hod  risen  up  out  <j< 
flhe  earth,  iUmoit  took  her  breath  away.     But  for  die   Lad| 


I 

I 


ITS  ENCLISH  READING 


319 


Cccfl  Clnre  to  lose  her  sclf-pt^&essioti  lung  was  not  possible.  A 
second  later,  and  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  smile 
and  glanced  as  bright,  as  frank,  as  pleasant  as  any  that  had 
ever  been  ffiven  him  bj  the  Lady  Cecil  of  Torryglen. 

"It  is — It  is  Captain  O'Donncll.  And  after  all  those  yearil 
And  lO  changed  by  time,  and  whiskers,  and  Algerian  campaigB- 
big,  that  I  may  well  be  pardoned  for  doubting  his  identity." 

He  bowed  with  a  smile  over  the  little  hand  a  brief  instant 
then  resigned  it. 

"  Changed,  no  doubt — and  not  for  the  better ;  grown  old, 
and  gray,  and  grim.  And  you,  too,  have  changed,  Lady  Cecil 
— it  might  seem  like  flattery  if  1  told  you  how  greatly.  And  y« 
I  think  I  should  have  known  you  anywhere." 

"Queenie  has  grown  tall,  and  doesn't  blush  quite  so  often  as 
ffie  used  at  Torryglen,"  her  father  inter])osed.  "  You  have  had 
iiiany  hair-breadth  escapes  by  flood  and  field  since  we  saw  you 
Utst,  but  I  don't  think  you  ever  had  a  narrower  one  than  that 
«<rening  when  ^'e  saw  you  first.  Oh,  well — perhaps  excepting 
yestercEiy  at  the  picnic." 

Captain  O'Donnell  laughed — the  old,  pleasant,  mellow  laugh 
€f  long  ago — and  showed  very  white  teeth  behind  his  big 
troopePs  mustache, 

"  Yes,  the  risk  was  imminent  yesterday  ;  my  nerves  have 
hardly  yet  recovered  the  shock  of  that — tempest  in  a  teapot. 
1  am  ^lad  to  find  the  lady  1  rescued  so  heroically  from  that 
twopenny-halfpenny  squall  is  none  the  worse  for  her  wetting." 

"  Here  she  comes  to  answer  for  herself,"  returned  the  earl, 

as  his  niece  came  sailing  up  on  the  arm  of  Major  Frankiand, 

'  Major  Frankland,  behold  the  preserver  of  your  life  from  the 

hirricane  yesterday.     Lady  Dangerfield  has  already  thanked 

him.     Major  Frankland,  my  friend  Captain  O'Donnell." 

Major  Frankland  bowed,  but  he  also  frowned  and  pulled  his 
whisker.  Why  need  the  fellow  be  so  confoundedly  good-look- 
ingj  and  why  need  women  make  such  a  howling  over  a  trifle  ? 
He  Hadn't  even  risked  a  wet  jacket  for  Lady  Dangerfield — he  had 
risked  nothing,  in  fact ;  and  here  she  was  for  the  secorxl  time 
pouring  forth  her  gratitude  with  an  effiision  and  volubility  sicken- 
Hig  to  hear.  Captain  O'Donnell  bore  it  all  like  the  hero  he  was, 
and  stood  with  his  "  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him  "  pes'?  ctly 
>W>Jt  perfectly  easy,  perft^ctlv  self-possessed. 

^%o you  were  the  knignt  to  ttie  escue,  Captain  O'Donnell  ?' 
j&Ay  Cecil  said,  with  a  laugh  thai  htid  a  shadow  af  her  father's 
KOfCUBi  ID  St     "I  might  have  known  it  if  I  had  known  yoa 


■SI 


4 


190 


iTS   EfraUSff  RhADING. 


■!  <\ 


p 


1,1 


w 


fal  the  neighborhood  m  ait.  Vdu  have  an  amiable  mania 
for  nnng  people's  lives.  It  reminds  me  of  declining  a  verb. 
First  person  lingular,  he  saves  my  life,  second  person  fcinjjulai 
be  sares/M/r  life,  third  person  singular  he  saves  his  life — mean« 
ing  Sir  Arthur  over  yonder.  Really,  if  the  tournament  and  tilt- 
ing days  were  not  over  you  i.iight  ride  forth  a  veritable  knight 
errant  with  visor  closed,  and  corselet  clasped,  and  lance  in  rest 
to  the  rescue  of  fair  maidens  and  noble  dames  in  danger.  Bui 
aU  this  while,  paua,  you  do  not  tell  us  what  good  fortune  haf 
sent  Captain  O'Donnell  to  Sussex,  of  all  places  in  the  world" 

"  And  why  not  to  Sussex,  Lady  Cecil  ?  One  could  hardly 
select  a  fairer  county  to  ruralize  in.  However,  the  choice  on 
this  occasion  was  not  mine,  but  my  sister's.  She  wished  to 
come — why,  Heaven  knows — I  never  presume  to  ask  the  rea- 
son of  a  lady's  whim.  She  wished  to  come  to  Sussex,  to  Castle- 
ford,  and — here  we  are." 

"  Your  sister  ? "  Lady  Cecil  said,  interested.  "  Yes,  Mr. 
Wyatt  told  me  in  town  she  was  with  you ;  in  ill  health,  too,  1 
am  almost  afraid  h*^  said." 

"  In  very  ill  health,"  the  chasseur  answered,  gravely;  "and 
I  can  set  her  anxiety  to  visit  this  place  down  to  nothing  but  an 
invalid's  meaningless  whim.  My  great  hope  is  that  its  gratifi- 
cation may  do  her  good." 

"Your  sister  here,  and  sick.  Captain  O'Donnell?"  Lady 
Dangerfield  cut  in,  "and  we  njt  know  it?  Abominable  1 
Where  are  you  staying  ?  " 

"  In  very  pleasant  quarters/'  with  a  smile  at  her  brusquerit ; 
"at  the  Silver  Rose." 

"  Very  pleasant  for  an  Algerian  soldier,  perhaps — not  so 
pleasant  for  an  invalid  lady.  Your  sister  comes  here,  Cap- 
tain O'Donnell — oh,  I  insist  upon  it — and  shall  make  Scai» 
wood  her  home  during  her  stay.  You  too — Sir  Peter  and  J 
will  be  nu>st  happy ;  indeed  we  shall  take  no  excuse." 

But  Captain  O'Donnell  only  listened  and  smiled  thst  inexoan 
Me  smile  of  his. 

"  Thanks  very  much  ;  you  are  most  kind ;  but  of  course,  ii 
b  quite  impossible." 

"  No  one  ever  says  impossible  to  me,  sir,"  cric^  mj  lady,  im- 
perially. "  Miss  O'  Donnell — is  she  Miss  O'Donn^ell,  by  the  bye  ? 
Slie  is.  Very  well,  then,  Lady  Cecil  and  I  will  c^Iil  upow 
Miss  O'Donnell  to-morrow  at  the  Silver  Rose,  and  fetch  he 
kMck  with  us  here — that's  deaded." 

**^Q^\  my  dear,"  interrupted  Lord  RuysUnd^  ''tf  /oa  caa 


1 


ITS  ENGL7SH  Rh.ADlNG. 


P« 


1 


prcvftD  upon  CDonnell  to  say  yes  when  O'Donuell  has  \\\\<\c 
■p  hiB  mind  to  say  no,  then  you  are  a  greater  diplomat  than  I 
ever  gave  you  credit  for.  Ton  my  life  you  should  have  seen 
and  heard  the  trouble  /had  to  induce  him  to  honor  Scarswovxi 
with  his  presence  even  for  a  few  moments  to  night.  Said  it 
wasn't  worth  while,  yon  know— intended  to  leave  in  a  week  at 
■o — didn't  want  to  put  in  an  appearance  at  al),  by  Georfe. 
even  to  \^t  you  again,  Queenie,  one  of  his  oldest  friends." 

"  It  is  characteristic  of  Cai)tain  O'Donnell  to  treat  his  friends 
with  profound  tlisregard  Not  over  flattering  to  us,  is  ft, 
Ginevra?  By  the  way,  though,  I  should  have  thought  yof 
would  have  liked  to  see  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  again,  at  least 
He  certainly  would  have  put  himself  to  considerable  incon 
venience  for  the  pleasure  of  meeting  ^y^^tt." 

"  What !  "  O'Donnell  said,  his  eyes  lighting  with  real  plea 
sure,  "  Tregenna  here  !  You  are  right,  Lady  Cecil ;  I  shall  b* 
glad  to  meet  him  again — the  best  fellow  ! — Ah  I  I  see  him — 
very  pleasantly  occupied  he  appears  to  be,  too." 

'*  Flirting  with  the  goveniess,"  put  in  the  earl,  stroking  hia 
iron-gray  mustache.  "  Miss  Ilerncastle  must  have  something 
to  say  for  herself,  then,  after  all ;  she  has  succeeded  in  amusing 
Tregenna  longer  and  better  than  I  ever  saw  him  before  since 
he  came  here.  How  is  it  she  comes  to  be  among  us  to-night, 
Ginevra  ?  Her  first  appearance,  is  it  not  ? — and  very  unlike 
your  usual  tactics." 

"  Queenie  would  have  it,"  Lady  Dangerfield  answered,  with 
a  shrug ;  "  she  persists  in  making  the  governess  one  of  the 
family." 

"Oh,  Queenie  would  have  it,  would  she  ?"  the  earl  respond- 
ed, thoughtfully  looking  at  his  daughter.  "  Very  considerate  o< 
Queenie,  and  she  likes  to  have  the  baronet  amused — naturally. 
Captain  O'Donnell,  you  honor  Miss  Hemcastle  with  a  very 
prolonged  and  inquisitive  gaze — may  I  ask  if  you  have  fallen  a 
victim  as  well  as  Sir  Arthur?" 

"  A  victim  ?  Well  no,  I  think  not.  I  am  trying  to  recollect 
whirl  1  have  seen  Miss  Hemcastle  before." 

"  What !  "  cried  Lady  Dangerfield  ;  "  you  too  ?  Oh,  this  i» 
too  much.  First  Lord  Ruysland,  then  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield, 
BOW  Captain  O'Donnell,  all  are  transfixed  at  sight  of  my 
nursery  governess,  and  insist  that,  dead  or  alive,  they  have  met 
her  before.  Now  where  was  it  you  knew  her,  Mtn  Cmpitmimt  $ 
Surely  nfft  m  Algiers?" 

"  So\  m  Algiers,  c^rt.iinh      Whrrr  I  have  s^en  her  before:. 


f  f;  '•■ 


I'i 


^gg  17^  ENGLISH  HEADING. 

1  cumoC  tell ;  teen  her  I  have,  thai  is  positive— my  menioiT 
fsr  httM  and  faces  may  be  trusted.  And  hers  is  not  a  Cure  to 
be  •ccn  ind  forgotten,  yet  just  now  I  cannot  place  it." 

"Our  waltz,  1  believe.  Lady  Cecil ! "  exclaimed  a  gentleman, 
coming  up  and  salaaming  before  her.  It  was  Squire  Talbot,  ol 
Mor^ounbe ;  and  I^dy  Cecil,  with  a  few  last  smiling  wordf 
over  her  white  shoulder  to  the  chasseur,  took  his  proffered  arm 
and  moyed  away. 

"  How  strange,"  the  was  thinking,  "  that  Captain  O'Donnell 
iriuMild  have  known  her  too.  Really,  Miss  Herncastle  is  a  most 
mysterious  personage.  Why  is  it,  1  wonder,  that  she  attracts 
and  fascinates  me  io  ?  It  isn't  that  I  like  her — I  don't ;  I 
<k>ubt,  I  distrust  her.  Yet  I  like  to  look  at  her,  to  hear  her  talk, 
to  wonder  about  her.  How  rapt  Sir  Arthur  looks  1  /never 
succeeded  in  enchaining  hun  like  that.  Four  hours  ago  he  wat 
nn  the  brink  of  asking  me  to  be  his  wife — now  he  locks  as 
ihough  there  were  not  another  woman  in  the  scheme  of  the  uni- 
rerse  than  Helen  Heincastle.  A.ti  I  jcxlojs,  I  wonder  ? — do 
I  really  want  to  marry  him  aftei  all  f  Am  I  the  coquette  they 
caUme?" 

She  smiled  bitterly  as  she  looked  toward  thein.  Squire  Tal 
bot  caught  that  look  and  followed  it. 

"  Eh  1  Quite  a  flirtation  going  on  there,  certvnly."  He 
was  rather  obtuse — the  squire.  "  Didn't  think  Sir  Arthur  was 
much  of  a  lady's  man,  hut  gad  I  to-night  he  sftews— oh,  good 
Heaven  I " 

He  stopped  short — he  stared  aghast.     Miss  Herncastle  had 
lifted  her  stately  head  from  the  book  of  engravings  tind  tumd 
her  face  full  toward  them.     And  for  the  first  time  Squiie  Tju 
bot  saw  her. 

Lady  Cecil  looked  at  him  and  laughed  outright.  Amaz^ 
>;:onstemation,  horror,  were  actually  pictured  upon  his  face. 

"  What  1  another  I  Upon  my  word  the  plot  thickens  rapidly. 
Vou,  too,  have  known  Miss  Herncastle  then  in  some  oth« 
and  better  world  ?  Is  she  destined  to  strike  every  gentleman 
the  meets  in  this  sensational  manner  ?  " 

♦*  Misf — what  did  you  call  her,  Lady  Cecil  ?  Good  God  I  I 
never  saw  such  a  resemblance.  Upon  my  sacred  honor,  Lady 
Cecil,  I  thought  it  was  a  ghost  I " 

**  Of  cotu-se — that's  the  formula — they  all  say  that  WhoM 
ghost  do  you  take  her  for,  Squire  Talbot  ?  " 

"  Katherine  Dangerfield,  of  course — poor  Kathie.  It  is — 
Good  G«d  I — it  is  as  lik<^  ^er  as —  "  the  squire  pulled  oat  t^ 


I 


ITS  ENGLISH  READING, 


\ 


323 


dinbric  aiul  wiped  his  tlushod  and  excited  face.  "  1  give  jrofi 
my  word,  I  ntner  saw  siich  a  reiieniblance.  Except  thai  thii 
lady  has  darker  hair,  and  yes — yes,  1  think — and  is  taller  and 
more  womanly — she  is — "  again  the  squire  paused,  his  con- 
sternation only  permitting  disconnected  sentences.  "  1  nevci 
saw  anything  like  it — never,  J  give  you  my  honor.  Whit  dod 
Sir  Peter  say  ?  He  must  have  noticed  it,  and  gad,  it  can't  be 
pleasant  for  him'^ 

**  Sir  Peter  has  been  in  a  collapsed  and  horrified  ttate  evo 
•ince  she  entered  Scarswood.  Oh,  yes !  he  sees  it — not  a 
doubt  of  that.  Miss  Herncastle  is  like  one  of  Wilkie  Collin^ 
novels — the  interest  intensifies  steadily  to  the  end — the  *  Man 
in  the  Iron  Mask '  was  plain  reading  compared  to  her.  Really, 
if  she  keeps  frightening  people  in  this  way,  1  greatly  fear  Lady 
Dangerfield  must  send  her  away.  A  living  ghost  can't  be  a 
pleasant  instructress  of  youth." 

**She  does  not  seem  to  frighten  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  at 
least,"  said  Squire  Talbot,  beginning  to  recover  from  his  sudden 
shock.  "  And  so  she  is  only  the  governess.  I  never  saw  such 
a  resemblance — never  in  all  my  life.  What  would  Edith  say, 
1  wonder,  if  she  could  see  it  ?  " 

"Edith?" 

"  My  sister,  you  know — used  to  be  Katherine  Dangerfield' s 
bosom  friend  and  confidante — married  now,  you  know — De 
Vere  of  the  Plungers — and  gone  to  south  of  France  for  he< 
health.  Gad!  I  don't  think  it  would  be  safe  to  let  them 
meet — she's  nervous,  Edith  is — took  Katherine' s  death,  poor 
girl,  very  deeply  to  heart ;  and  if  she  came  suddenly  upon  thi^ 
—this  fac-simile,  by  George !  of  her  friend,  I  wouldn't  answer 
for  the  consequences.  Never  saw  such  a  striking  resemblance 
ia  all  my  life." 

And  then  they  whirled  away  in  their  waltz.  How  strange  I 
now  strange )  Lady  Cecil  kept  thinking.  Perhaps  that  was 
why  her  eyes  rarely  wandered  from  these  two  at  the  tabic 
No  one  intemipted  them.  It  was  a  most  pronounced  fiirta 
don.  Even  Captain  O'Donnell  declined  the  request  of  his 
^osteiM  and  the  earl  that  he  should  go  up  and  speak  to  his 
friend.** 

"  By  no  means,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  \  "  that  can  wait.  \\ 
would  be  a  pity  to  interrupt  him — he  seems  so  well  amused" 

It  was  Miss  Herncastle  herself  who  broke  up  the  tUe-ii4iU, 
Sir  Arthui  had  become  so  interested,  so  absorbed  in  his  com 
PicioQ  snd  th'  pictur?«,  is  tr  (vji^o  forget  the  flight  of  tiniie. 


;■(  ' 


324 


ITS  ENar.fsfr  kp.adisg. 


m 


■  i, 


Wumen  ncrer  forget  the  prupncius,  la  coni^mvues,  in  anf 
■ituadon  of  life.  She  arose,  I^dy  Cecil  still  watching  her  with 
a  curiously  set  and  interesteJ  expression,  sjioke  a  few  l.isi  half 
■ailing  words,  and  hurried  away.  Like  a  iii;in  awakenwti^  fion* 
a  dream,  she  saw  Sir  Arthur  rise.  No,  l.ady  Cecil,  y(m  i  evei 
fucceeded  in  holding  him  spell-bound  in  this  way,  with  all 
your  beauty,  all  your  brilliance.  Then  from  an  inner  room  sha 
■aw  the  tall  chasseur  make  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  ap> 
proach.  She  could  even  hear  his  deep  mellow  tones,  "Ire 
genna,  my  dear  feMow,  how  goes  it?"  Then  with  a  look  o* 
real  pleasure  lighting  up  his  grave  face,  she  saw  the  Comi>:h 
baronet  clasp  the  hand  of  the  Irish  soldier  of  fortune.  Was 
there  anything  in  the  sight  of  the  cordial  hand-clasp  of  those 
two  men  unpleasant  to  the  sight  of  Lady  Cecil  Clive  ?  Over 
the  fair  face  an  irritated  flush  came,  into  the  brown,  bright  eyes 
a  sudden,  swift,  dark  anger  passed.  She  turned  away  from 
the  sight  to  her  next  partner,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  night 
danced  and  flirted  without  intermission.  Her  laugh  was  gayer, 
her  eyes  brighter,  her  cheeks  rosier  than  any  there  had  evei 
seen  them  before.  Bright  at  all  times,  some  touch  of  feverish 
impatience  and  anger  within  made  her  positively  dazzling 
to-night 

The  "  festive  hours  "  drew  to  a  close  ;  the  guests  were  faat 
departing.  The  music  was  pealing  forth  its  last  gay  strains,  as 
for  the  first  moment  she  found  herself  alone.  No  touch  of 
fatigue  dimmed  the  radiance  of  that  perfect  face  ;  that  starr) 
light  gave  her  eyes  the  gleam  of  dark  diamonds  ;  the  fever  rose 
tint  was  deeper  than  ever  on  her  cheek,  when  looking  up  sh# 
saw  approaching  Lady  Dangerfield  on  the  arm  of  Civptaii^ 
O'Donnell. — Sir  Arthur,  stately  and  dignified,  on  her  othc* 
hand.  Her  brilliant  ladyship  was  vivaciously  insisting  upor. 
■omething,  the  chasseur  laughingly  but  resolutely  refusing. 

**  Oh,  here  you  are,  Queenie  ! "  her  ladyship  impatiently 
cried.  "  What  an  inveterate  dancer  you  are  becoming.  It  was 
btiguing  only  to  watch  you  to-night.  Ferhaps  you  will  succeed 
where  I  faiL  You  and  Captain  O'Donnell  appear  to  be  old 
friends;  try  if  you  can  prevail  upon  him  and  overcome  his 
obstinacy." 

"  To  overcome  the  obstinacy  of  Captain  C  Donnell  I  know 
of  old  to  be  an  impossible  task.  Hut  to  please  you,  Ginevra  i 
On  what  particular  point  is  our  Chasseur  (TA/rique  obstinate 
now?" 

*'  I  want  him  to  ksave  ^e  inn  at  Castleford,  with  his  suiter, 


> 


/Tf  HI^CUSFf  READTf^G. 


sn 


Mid  come  here.  Tlie  idea  of  stopping  at  \x\  inn — a  lady,  t<M 
— prepotterons  t  Sir  Peter  insists,  /  insist,  Uncle  Raoul  in 
iiiti,  Sir  Arthur  insists — all  in  vain.  And  I  used  to  think 
irishmen  the  most  gallant  and  yielding  (^1  men — could  not 
poMlbly  Wky  no  to  a  lady  if  they  tried.  I  shall  have  anothei 
•IMnion  of  Captain  O'Donnell's  countrymen  after  ro-niu^ht" 

"You  wi/i come  "  La  JReifu  Blanche  said,  with  a  gUnce  o« 
^  long,  luminous  eves,  that  had  done  fatal  seiv?ce  ere  to 
ld|^t  Few  men  had  ever  the  moral  touragf^  to  say  no  to 
thoK"  bewitching  eyes.  **  Yon  will.  Our  motto  is  *  The  Mor«» 
the  Merrier,'  We  will  do  our  best  not  to  bore  you.  Scars- 
wood  i»  t  pleasanter  place  than  the  Silver  Rose.  Yo«  wi3 
come — /  wish  it" 

"And  nobody  ever  says  no  to  Queenie,"  Lady  Dangerfield 
|ayly  added  ;  "  her  rule  is  absolute  mouarchy." 

He  looked  down  into  the  beautiful,  laughing,  imperial  face, 
and  bene  low  before  her,  with  all  the  gallantry  of  an  Irishman, 
all  the  did&nnaire  of  a  Frenchman. 

"I  can  believe  it,  Lady  Dangerfield.  And  that  Za  JKein* 
Blanche  may  have  the  pleasure  of  a  new  sensation,  permit  me 
to  say  it — for  once.  To  please  Lady  Cecil — wnat  is  there 
mortad  man  would  not  do  ?  [n  this  trivial  matter  she  will, 
however,  let  roe  have  my  own  obstinate  way.  If  the  Peri  had 
never  dwelt  in  Paradise,  she  would  not  have  wept  in  leaving. 
I  may  be  weak,  but  past  sad  experience  has  taught  me  wisdom. 
I  take  warning  by  the  fate  of  the  Peri." 

His  tone  was  very  gentle,  his  smile  very  pleasant,  but  hif 
will  was  invincible.  The  velvet  glove  sheathM  a  hand  of  iron  •• 
this  was  not  the  Redmond  O'Donnell  t^he  had  known — the  mh 
pctuous,  yielding  lad,  to  whom  she  had  but  to^^ay  '*  come,"  ami 
be  came — "go,"  and  he  went.  Was  she  testing  her  owr; 
power?  If  so,  she  failed  signally.  As  he  tinned  to  go  to  the 
cloak-room  she  heard  him  humming  a  tune  under  his  breath,  ? 
foeer,  provoking  half-smile  on  his  face.  She  caught  the  fa^ 
snd  of  the  words  : 

**Fw  tiM  Urd  that  U  once  in  th«  ta<L^  mj  daw, 
Cui  mtrnt  b«  caocht  wltb  cluli." 

That  half-amused,  half-knowing  smile  was  still  on  hb  mci» 
ladled  lips  as  he  bade  her  a  gay  good  night,  and  was  gooc 
T^  Irish  Idyl  had  been  written,  ^nd  t'\if  was  its  English  reading 


1^^ 


va 


^rmm  battle  of  f^oNT&Nor** 


CHAFI ER  XII. 


M 


THl    BATTLB   Of   rONTXNOY. 


my- 


i". 


! 


I  w 


t;  1 


HE  small  parlor  of  the  Silver  Rose  looked  very  mi^ i 
to  ilay  as  it  had  done  this  day  six  years,  when  iitti» 
Mrs.  Vavasor  had  been  its  occupant.  A  trifle  dustier 
and  rustier,  darker  and  dingier,  but  the  same ;  aud  in 
one  of  its  venerable,  home-made  arm  chairs,  under  its  opei> 
front  windows,  sat  another  little  lady,  looking  with  weary  eyes, 
lip  and  down  the  street.  It  was  Rose  O'Donnell — the  captain's 
sister.  She  was  a  little  creature,  as  petite  as  Mrs.  Vavasor  her- 
self, of  fairy-like,  fragile  proportions,  a  wan,  moonlight  «or^  oi 
face,  lit  with  large,  melancholy  eyes.  Tliose  somber,  blue  e^cs, 
ander  their  black  brows  and  Ia:.hc£  saj'nded  you  of  I.*j 
brother ;  the  rich,  abu.idant  brow-,  ha'.  'At  was  but  a  warmer 
shade  of  black,  was  also  his  ;  othr r-A'  there  was  no  roieui 
bljuice.  In  repose  the  expression  t}f  Urot  wan,  small  face  was 
one  of  settled  sadness ;  at  intervals,  tliough^  it  lit  up  into  a 
smile  of  wonderful  brightness  and  s'.vcemess,  and  then  she  was 
more  like  her  brother  than  ever.  She  wore  gray  silk,  without 
ribbon,  or  lace,  or  jewel,  and  she  looked  like  a  little  Quakeress, 
or  a  small,  gray  kitten,  coiled  up  there  in  her  big  chair.  She 
vras  quite  alone,  her  delicate  brow  knit  in  deep  and  painful 
thought,  her  hands  clasping  and  unclasping  nervously  in  her  lap, 
her  great  eyes  Exed  on  the  passers-by,  but  evidently  not  seeing 
them. 

**  This  is  the  place,"  she  said  to  herself,  in  a  sort  c*  whisper ; 
"  thi^  is  the  town,  and  Scarswood  was  the  house.  At  last— at 
tast  I  But  how  will  it  end  ?  Must  1  go  on  to  my  grave  knowing 
iiotiiiiig — nothing — whether  he  be  living  or  dead,  or  am  I  to  find 
jut  hftre  ?  If  I  only  dared  tell  Redmond — my  best  brother, 
aiy  dearest  friend — out  I  dare  not.  If  he  be  aiive,  and  th»fy 
isaet,  he  would  surely  kill  him." 

An  inner  door  opened,  and  her  brother,  a  straw  sombrero 
in  one  hand,  a  iishing-rod  in  the  other,  came  in  with  his  sounding 
trooper  tread. 

"  Rose,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "  I  did  not  mention  it  at  break 
fiut,  but  I  was  absent  last  night .  I  met  an  old  acquaintance, 
^d  he  insisted  upon  taking  me  with  him.  I  spent  cuy 
.^/«ming  at  Scarswood  Twk." 


••rOfi   BATTLE   OF  FONT E SOY.** 


w 


<•% 


''Satnwood  Park  !*'  It  ^as  almost  a  startled  cry,  but  ne 
lid  not  noHce  it. 

"Yes,  Scariwood  Purk — place  some  three  or  four  miles  off— 
bclcnging  to  Sir  Peter  Dang  frfield.  Didn't  see  Sir  Peter — tan 
mj  lady,  though,  and — here  is  where  the  interest  coraei  im. 
She  ineutfl  upon  your  leaving  this  hostelry  and  becoming  hcf 
juest." 

"  Yes.  I  chanced  to  do  Xmjx  socne  trifling  service  the  othet 
lay — absurdly  trifling  to  make  such  a  fuss  over — and  she  insists 
upon  magnifying  a  mole-hill  into  a  mountain,  saying  I  saved 
her  life  and  all  that.  She  is  really  the  most  hospitable  lady  I 
ever  met — wanted  to  insist  ui>on  us  both  pitching  our  tents  in 
Scarswood.  For  myself,  I  declined,  and  do  so  still,  of  course  ; 
but  for  you — I  have  been  thinking  it  over,  and  am  not  so  sure. 
This  isn't  just  the  place  of  all  places  I  should  choose  for  you ; 
perpetual  sk'.ttles  in  a  back-yard  can^t  be  agreeable  to  a  well- 
constructed  female  mind.  They  are  going  to  call  to-day,  and 
If  they  insist,  and  you  prefer  it,  why,  go  with  them,  if  you 
wiU." 

"  They — Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Dangerfteld,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  No ;  Lady  Dang«^rfield  and  her  cousin,  the  I^ady  Cecil 
Clive.  By  the  bye,  1  neglected  to  mention  that  I  knew  Lady 
Cecil  and  her  father,  Lord  Ruysland,  years  ago,  in  Ireland. 
They're  very  civil  and  all  that,  2.nd  if  they  insist,  as  I  saiti,  and 
fou  prefer  it — " 

Her  large  eyes  lit  with  .'  i  eager  light 

"  There  can  be  no  question  as  to  my  preference,  brofduor ; 
Wt  if  you  object  to  it  in  any  way — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  object.     I  would  just  as  soon — sooner,  in(L.%.<dl 

-you  went,  as  you  insist  upon  staying  in  this  place  at  all.     I 

tliall  remain  here,  and  run  down  to  see  you  every  day  nntil  you 

!iave  had  enough  of  Castleford  and  Scarswood.     And  now,  ait 

*tV4if  for  the  day — I'm  going  fishing." 

He  left  the  room  whistling,  flinging  his  sombrero  carelessly 
«m  his  dark  curls,  and  throwing  his  fishing-rod  over  hi?  shouldei . 
His  sister  watched  his  tall  figure  out  of  sight. 

*'  So  he  knew  this  Lady  Cecil  years  ago,  in  Ireland,  and  never 
told  me  I     Odd  !     I  wonder  if  Lanty  knew  her  I     I  shall  ask." 

As  if  the  thought  had  evoked  him,  gnter  Lanty  I^fferty,  '-> 
brush  in  one  hand,  a  pair  of  his  master's  nding-boota  in  t! 
dther,  darkened   by  an  Algerian    sun,  otherwise   not   a     .   . 
changed  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  six  years'  soldierinsc      (^« 


i: 


M  n 


]!,    , 


s^s 


"  THE   BATTLM    OF  FONTENOY.'* 


!      Y, 


S  •". 


Pil 


\m 


deposited  the  bo<jts  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  stepped  backi  like 
ft  true  artist,  to  survey  his  work. 

"Thim's  ihiin,"  said  Lanty,  "an'  polished  till  ye  might 
a'most  shave  yersilf  in  thini.  Miss  Rose,  alannal  is  ther  any 
thing  in  the  wurruld  ynde  I  can  do  for  ye?  Shure  me  ^erj 
heart's  broke  intirely  since  we  keni  to  this  place,  wid  8om 
hand's  turn  to  do  from  mornin'  till  night." 

**  What !  And  you  coniplain  of  that,  Lanty  1 "  his  youn| 
ittiStress  said,  with  a  smile.  *'  Now,  1  should  thinh  you  would 
be  glad  of  a  holiday  after  your  active  life  out  in  Algiers.  Surely 
jrou  are  not  longing  so  s(ion  to  be  off  again  s(>ldi<?ring  ?  " 

"  Sodgering,  is  it?  Oh,  thin,  'tis  wishin'  it  well  I  am  foi 
sodgering.  Sorra  luck  or  grace  is  thir  about  sich  murtherir' 
work  I'm  not  sayin'  agifi  rtghdn',  mind;  thir  wasn't  a  boy  in 
the  barony  fondher  av  a  nate  bit  av  a  scrimmag  thin  meself ; 
but  out  there  among  thim  black  hay  thins  av  Arabs,  an'  thim 
little  swearin'  divils  av  Frinchmin,  that  wor  wurse  nor  onny 
haythin — oh,  thin,  sweet  bad  luck  to  it  all !  Shure,  what  the 
captain  can  see  in  it  bates  me  intirely.  As  if  it  wasn't  bad 
enough  to  be  starved  on  black  bread  an'  blacker  soup,  an'  ii 
ye  said  '  i)ays '  about  it,  called  up  afore  a  coort martial  an'  shot 
m  the  clappin'  av  yer  hands.  Faith,  it  turns  me  stomach  this 
minute  whin  I  think  av  all  the  tidy  boys  I've  seen  ordhered 
out  at  daybreak  to  kneel  on  thir  own  coffins  an'  be  shot  down 
like  snipe  for  mebbe  stickin'  a  friudly  Arab,  or  givin'  a  word  ar 
divilment  or  divarshun  to  thir  shuparior  officer.  May  ouUi 
Nick  fly  away  wid  Algiers  an'  all  belongin'  to  it  afore  Misthe; 
Redmond  takes  it  into  his  head  to  go  back  there  again.  It*a 
little  I  thought  this  time  six  years  that  I'd  iver  set  fut  in  it  on 
any  other  haythin  Ian'  like  it,  whin  Misther  Redmond  an'  tha? 
Deautiful  young  slip,  the  lord's  daughter,  wor  coortin'  beyanl 
ill  Torryglen.  Faix  !  it's  marred  1  thought  they'd  be  long  an' 
many  a  day  ago,  wid  rnebbe  three  or  four  fint  childer  growiu 
up  about  thim  an'  myself  dhry-nurse  to  thim  same,  ftit,  ofl. 
wirra !  shure  the  Lord's  will  be  done  !  " 

Mr.  Lafferty,  witli  a  sort  of  groan  over  the  hollowness  uk 
human  hope,  shook  his  head,  took  a  last  admiring  look  at  the 
flitter  of  the  master's  boots,  and  then  turned  to  depart ;  bcM 
the  young  lady  detained  him. 

"  It's  a  harrowing  case,  Lanty.     Don't  be  »i  a  hurry.     So 
the  lord  (I  supj)osc  you  allude  to   Lord  Ruy^nd,  and  don'l 
mean  anything  irreverent,)  ard  his  daughter  w«re  in  IiclaD<t 
hen  beioiire  fou  ever  went  to  Algiers  ?  " 


lik€ 


foi 


don' I 


"  THH    ft4TTr.J*    OF   FOA'TfiA/OV 


t^ 


•*\f ;  ye  may  well  say  they  wor.  An'  maybe  it  len't  i» 
Ai^en  we'd  be  to  this  day  av  it  wasn't  for  thiin.  lieavcn  for 
give  me,  but  the  thought  o'  thiiu  goes  between  me  an'  m< 
night* s  sleep.  Och  !  but  it's  the  desavin'  pair  they  wor.  Bui 
shure  what  betther  cud  ye  exj)ect — didn't  the  Enghsh  iver  an 
always  discave  the  Irish — the  curse  o'  Cromwell  on  thirn  \ 
There  they  wor — an'  ifs  the  smile  and  civil  word  an'  the  'Go4 
i»ve  ye  kindly,  Misther  Redmond  ar.ushalla,'  they  had  fo:  hiii 
until  a  blind  man  cud  see  the  sthate  he  was  in.  Sorra  a  hate 
ihey  did  but  coort — Misther  Redmond  and  herself — an'  the 
ould  lord  lookin'  on  as  plazed  as  Punch.  Ay,  faith,  an'  their 
looks  an'  their  picters — wasn't  she  foriver  taken  off  the  old 
rocks  and  the  castle  an'  meself,  for  that  mather  as  if  I  was  a 
baste.  An*  thin,  whin  it's  wantin'  to  many  her  he  was — shure 
I  could  see  it — by  the  powers  !  it's  up  an'  away  they  wor  like 
a  shot,  without  as  much  as  a  good-by  to  ye,  or  go  the  divil,  or 
the  laste  civiHty  in  life.  An'  the  young  masther — troth  !  it  'ud 
take  a  dhrop  from  ye  if  it  was  the  la^t  in  yer  eye — to  see  the 
shtate  he  was  in,  naither  aitin'  nor  sUpin',  and  fallin'  away  to 
dog-dhrive  afore  me  very  eyes.  An'  thin  all  at  once  Algiers 
kem  in  his  head,  an*  he  was  otf  hot  foot.  Ye  might  as  well 
thry  to  sthop  Torrybalim  whin  it*c.  spouhtin,  as  sthop  him  whin 
he  takes  a  notion  into  his  head.  An'  av  coorse  I  wint  wid 
him — didn't  I  mind  him  an'  look  afther  him  since  he  was  a 
weeny  crathure  in  my  arrums.  She  was  an  intinin'  young  slip, 
I  say,  but  upon  my  conscience,  av  she  was  tin  lords'  daughters. 
it  was  a  mane-shpuited  way  to  sarve  him,  afther  him  savm*  her 
life,  too.     Divil  a  dirthiei  trick  iver  I  heerd  tell  of* 

Rose  O'Donnell  smiled  bitterly. 

"  A  very  common  thing  in  hfr  world,  I  take  it,  Lanty. 
dMit*s  Redmond's  secret  ?    and  1    am  to  see  her  ?     She 
pretty,  you  say,  lianty?*' 

"  The  purticrt  darlin'  iver  me  eyes  looked  at,  barrin' 


And 
wa^ 


tt 


yf.r 


"Thanks,  I.APty  Barring  myself — thafs  understood,  of 
eoorie.     Was  she  fair  or  dark  ?  " 

She  asked  the  question  with  a  woman's  minute  curiosity 
about  such  things.  It  was  so  hopelessly  dull  here  at  the 
**  Silver  Rose,"  that  she  felt  strongly  inclined  to  accept  the  in- 
vitation to  Scarswood  Park,  if  that  invitation  were  tendered 

"  Fair,'*  responded  Mr.  I.atferty  ;  "  a  skin  like  the  shno)*  on 
the  mountains,  hair  like  sthramin  '  goold,  an'  eyss — oh  musha  I 
bad  tcran  to  thtm,  ti-<  beauties  o  hit  uromild  that  they  wor ;. 


h> 


m 

\i 


^'£-n 


r 


VI  ■  ■ 

Ill 

it ' 


S5© 


*•  rnw    HATTTF   OF   WOl^TRKOV* 


sore  if  I  no  wondher  at  all  Masther  Redmond  wint  out  d  hj:$ 
head  a'nioit  about  her  Troth  she  was  purty,  Miss  Ri»se  \  ii 
oted  to  do  me  good  only  to  look  at  her  ;  an'  wid  iver  an' 
sdways  a  smile  on  her  beautiful  face,  an'  a  civil  word  for  ye 
whiniver  ye'd  meet  her.  But  I  always  said,  an'  J  say  again,  b 
wasn't  the  action  av  a  rale  lady  to  thrate  masther  as  she  (1^4 
not  tM  she  wor  twinty  earls'  daughters.  If  s  like  a  gintlemap 
%t)in  Ireland,  an'  an  Irish  ^ntleman  ;  av  ye  wem't  tould  th* 
inference  shure  ye  might  thmk  they  wor  the  same." 

"  And  aren't  they,  Lanty  ?  " 

"  Sorrm  taste — there's  all  the  difference  in  life.  A  gintleman 
horn  Ireland  is  anybody,  faith — meself  an'  the  likes  o'  me,  for 
that  matter ;  and  av  ye  come  to  that,  the  Lafifertys  wor  the 
hoith  o'  qusdity  whin  the  O'Donnells  wor  kings  and  quanc«. 
But  an  Irish  gintleman  !  Oh,  be  me  Sokins  !  an  Irish  gintle- 
man's  a  gintleman  indade." 

But  Lant/s  mistress  did  not  hear  the  last  of  this  eloquent 
explanation.  She  was  gazing  from  behind  the  window  curtain 
at  a  stately  barouche,  containing  two  elegantly  dressed  ladies, 
which  had  just  driven  up  before  the  door.  I^ady  Dangerfield 
and  the  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  she  felt  sure — ^no  such  visitors  ever 
■topped  at  the  doorway  of  the  Silver  Rose. 

The  bowing  and  obsequious  landlord  and  landlady  bustled 
out  to  meet  the  distinguished  arrivals. 

A  moment  later,  and  the  cards  of  the  two  ladies  were  borne 
upstairs  and  presented  to  Miss  Rose  O'Donnell. 

"  You  will  show  them  up  here  immediately,  Mrs.  Norton," 
■he  said  to  the  dipping  hostess  of  the  Silver  Rose. 

And  then,  with  a  soft  rustle  of  silk  and  muslin,  a  faint,  sweet 
perfiune,  the  baronef  s  petite  wife  and  the  earl's  tall,  graceful 
daughter  were  in  the  shabby  parlor  of  the  inn. 

Rose  O'DonneH  came  forward  to  meet  and  greet  them  with 
a  calm,  high-bred  composure  that  was  very  perfect.  In  her 
southern  home  she  was  not,  perhaps,  accustomed  to  ladies  of 
title,  but  she  certainly  had  mingled  in  the  highest  society  of  New 
Orleans.  How  pretty  she  was,  and  how  like  those  dark  large 
eyes  of  blue  were  to  her  brother's.  It  was  Lady  Cecil's  first 
thought,  and  as  their  Aands  clasped,  and  Cecil's  grave,  sweet 
blue  eyes  were  lifted  to  her  face,  she  stooped  down  with  a  sud 
den,  swift  impulse  and  kissed  her.  From  that  hour  these  tw« 
were  ever  warmest  friends. 

**  I  think  I  should  have  known  you  anywheire,  Mbw  CDofr 
oeU,"  Lai^  Dangerfield  said,  "  you  are  so  like  yoiax  brother— 


^  TWn  m4rT7.F  nw  Fn^^'rF^ff^v^^ 


13^ 


♦nly  wanting  that  half-cynical,  hair  sar«^-»i;(  -^w  Iv?  and  ftli  men 
nvwadafft,  it  se«?ms  to  me,  wear.  T  s'lp^^ose  he  is  ont  of  the 
belierers  in  the  '  Nothing  is  new,  and  nothing  is  inie,  and  it 
don't  signify'  doctrine  ;  he  looks  as  thuugli  he  were.  He  hat 
told  you,  of  course,  how  he  saved  my  life  two  da"«  ago^  n^uei 
•or  boat  upset  *  " 

*  Saved  your  bfe  !     Indeed,  he  has  not," 

Lady  Cecil  laughed  softly. 

"  That's  like  Captain  O'  Donnell — *  on  their  own  merits  auod 
wt  men  are  dumb ; '  and  he  is  very  modest.  He  saved  mine 
too— did  he  ever  tell  you  that  ?  " 

"  No,"  Rose  said,  with  an  amused  smile  ;  '*  but  I,.anty  has. 
Perhaps,  however,  you  have  forgotten  Lanty  ?  " 

"  Lanty — Lanty  Lafferty — is  he  here  ?  How  glad  I  shall  be 
to  see  hun.  Forget  Mr.  Lafferty !  Not  likely ;  he  was  my 
first  love.  I  don't  think  he  ever  knew  it,  and  in  all  those  years 
ao  one  has  ever  replaced  him." 

Lady  Dangerfield  looked  at  her  laughing  cousin  with  some 
thing  of  a  malicious  gleam  in  her  black  eyes. 

"Substituting  the  name  of  Redmond  O' Donnell  for  that  of 
Ijanty  Lafferty,  1  dare  say  what  she  says  may  be  true  enough," 
she  thought  "  I  should  like  to  read  the  record  of  those  seven 
Irish  weeks,  my  handsome  Cecil,  and  see  if  I  could  not  find 
th<?  key  to  your  noted  indifference  to  all  men.  Miss  O'Don 
nell,"  aloud,  "  at  least  I  hope  that  secretive  brother  of  yours 
has  told  you  we  came  to  tender  the  hospitality  of  Scarswood 
Park — to  insist  indeed  upon  your  becoming  our  guest.  If 
you  knew  how  much  wr  desire  it,  I  am  sure  you  would  not 
refuse  us  this  pleasure  We  are  all  most  anxious — Sir  Peter, 
myself^  Lady  Cecil — all.  It  must  be  so  horribly  dull  for  you 
here  alone,  foi  of  course  Captain  O'  Donnell.  like  all  of  hi? 
cind,  brothers  and  husbands,  is  no  company  whatever.  Except 
as  lovers,  men  might  ?s  well  be  images  of  wood,  for  all  th« 
pleasure  one  has  in  their  society,  and  even  then  they  are  boret 
to  all  but  one.  We  will  take  no  denial ;  we  jx>«:itively  insisj 
upon  it." 

She  was  really  in  <>mest — she  really  wished  it  most  eagerly. 
Whenever  a  new  fancy  struck  her,  she  huntc  I  it  down  with  the 
feverish  intensity  of  an  aimless,  idle  life,  and  she  had  a  fancy 
for  this  pale,  siHnt  young  Irishwoman  becoming  her  guest 
Hci  liking  for  the  brother  extended  to  the  sister,  aix4  through 
h«r  artificial  maroer  sincere  cordiality  shone  now. 

"  Voo  will  come  ?  "  \  .ady  Cecil  added,  with  a  smUe  and  a 


«J9 


«•  THF    HATTr/f     7F   ff(mTF.NOY.* 


■f!    i: 


li 


gSaace  that  went  straight  to  Rop«  O*  DonneU's  heart  "  Vmn 
orother  was  hopelessly  obstinate  last  night ;  don't  make  us 
think  obstinacy  is  a  family  failing.  Vou  will  come,  and  this 
evening  ;  Scarswood  is  the  jjleasantest  country  house  I  know 

There  could  be  no  doubting  the  sinrjerity  of  the  invitation  •• 
none  but  a  very  churl  could  have  refused.  Rose  O'Donnell,  und«» 
«  cloud  just  at  present,  was  the  farthest  possible  from  a  chut  i 
iVith  a  smile  that  again  made  her  excessively  like  her  brothei, 
ihe  promised,  and  the  ladies  from  the  Park  arose  to  go." 

"  The  carriage  shall  come  for  you  this  evening,"  Lady  Dan 
gerfield  said.     "Your  brother  will  accompany  you,  and  dine 
with  us,  at  least     This  evening  at  six,  then,  we  shall  ex[)ecl 
you." 

And  then  the  cousins  swept  away  down  the  narrow  stairs, 
where  such  shining  visitors  were  rarely  seen,  and  into  the  ba- 
rouche, and  away  through  the  July  sunshine  back  to  lunch- 
eon. 

"  Pretty,"  was  Lady  Dangertield's  verdict,  *'  but  passee. 
Looks  as  though  she  were  in  troul)le  of  some  sort.  Crossed  in 
love,  probably,"  wkh  a  4iort  laugh,  "out  in  her  American 
French  city." 

"She  is  in  ill  health  ;  did  not  Captain  O'Donnell  say  so?" 
replied  Lady  Cecil  with  grave  rebuke.  *'  It  is  a  lovely  face  to 
my  mind — brunette  with  blue  eyes — a  rare  type." 

**  It  is  a  feminine  repetition  of  Redmond  O'Donnell' s  face ; 
the  eyes  and  smile  are  as  like  as  they  can  be.     He  is  very 
handsome,  very  dashing,  very  distinguished,  Queenie,"   mali 
ciously  ,  "  how  is  it  you  never  chanced  to  tell  me  you  spent 
•even  long  weeks  with  him  among  the  hills  of  Ulster  ?  " 

If  she  expected  to  see  hesitation  or  embarrassment  in  her 
^»asin's  face,  she  was  mistaken.  That  proud,  fair  face,  thos« 
iuminous  dark  eyes,  those  lovely  lips  kept  their  secret — if  seae^ 
ihcre  were — well. 

"  Hardly  with  him,  I  think — with  papa,  Ginevra.  And  really, 
how  was  I  to  teH  the  circumstance  would  interest  you? — that 
you  would  honoi  Redmond  O'Donnell  with  such  signal  marks 
of  yoxa  favor  ?  It  would  be  some  trouble  to  keep  you  af 
k0uranto{2X\  my  gentlemen  acfjuaintances." 

"  And  he  saved  your  life  ;  and  you  were  only  sixteen,  and 
he — was  he  as  eminently  good-looking  six  yearn  afx»  M  he  if 
t&4ay,  Q««.:me?" 

"  Better,  to  my  ntind,"  I.ady  Cecil  responded,  calmljr ;  '*  hf 


1 

f 


■•^ 


333 


-T/fH    HATrrji    OP    FO/^Tf.fi/OV" 


looks  ^Uui  &nd  cynic;^!  now,  %a  vou  say  Mt*  had  not 
out  his  trust  in  all  mankind  then  ;  and  I  confess  1  rather  prefa 
people  who  haven't  outlived  all  faith  in  their  fcllow-creaturet, 
tnd  who  have  one  or  two  human  emotions  left." 

"  My  dear,"  Lady  Dangerfield  said,  laughing,  **  he  has  had 
the  misfortune  to  know  La  Reine  Blanche.  Did  you  flesh 
four  maiden  sword  upon  him,  I  wonder  ?  You  had  to  begio 
four  career  with  some  one-  -as  well  a  wild  young  Irishman  at 
uyth^iig  else.  And  you  have  been  so  reticent,  my  dear,  on  tht 
xibject — too  tender  to  be  touched.  No,  don't  be  angry ;  it 
isn't  worth  while,  and  might  spoil  your  appetite  for  game  pie 
and  Moselle.  Vou  knew  Redmond  O'Donnell  six  years  aao, 
and — you  are  to  marry  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna — next  year  is  it  ? 
What  a  farce  life  is,  or  a  tragedy,  which  ?  " 

'*  Life  is  what  we  make  it,"  Lady  Cecil  answered,  with  a  little, 
bitter  smile ;  "  a  tragedy  to  howl  over,  or  a  comedy  to  laugh 
at.  The  wiser  philosophy  is  to  laugh,  I  believe,  since  it  is  out 
of  our  power  to  alter  or  decide  over  fate.  There  is  Miss  Hern- 
castle  gathering  flowers  ;  how  fond  she  seems  to  be  of  flowers  I 
What  a  dark,  somber  face  she  has  ! — what  an  extraordinary 
person  altogether — like  the  heroine  of  a  romance.  But  thea 
governesses  always  an  heroines,  are  they  not  ? — prime  favorites 
with  novelists.  I  rather  fear  she  has  found  life  too  dark  a 
tragedy,  by  any  possibility  to  make  a  jest  of" 

"  Sh?  is  the  best  embroideress  I  ever  saw,"  I^ady  Danger- 
field  said,  sweeping  her  silken  robes  up  the  sunlit  stairs.  "  I 
found  it  out  by  chance  yesterday.  Her  work  in  lace  and  cam- 
bric is  something  marvelously  beautiful.  I  had  some  thought 
of  sending  her  away — one  doesn't  want  a  person  about  the 
house  who  terrifies  every  one  she  meets — but  now  I  shall  retain 
her.  Her  embroideries  are  worth  three  hundred  a  year  to  me, 
and  she  certainly  has  accepted  a  very  low  salary." 

She  certainly  had,  and  that  was  a  great  consideration  with 
my  lady.  As  has  been  said,  long  years'  bitter  battle  with  pov 
«ty  had  taught  her  the  value  of  wealth,  and  though  she  squan- 
dered Sir  Peter's  income  recklessly  on  her  own  pleasure  and 
gratification,  she  yet  could  be  unspeakably  mean  in  small  things 
Now  that  she  had  discovered  how  useful  she  could  make  Mi.^ 
Hemcastle,  she  resolved  not  only  to  retain  her,  but  to  patron- 
ise her.  Miss  Herncastle  also  had  exquisite  taste  and  judgment 
in  all  matters  pertaining;  to  the  toiiet — why  not  dismiss  her 
maid  by  and  by,  and  install  this  useful  and  willing  nurserji 
|(n'«nie&s  in  her  place  1^ 


i1^ 


HI 


% 


i  m 


ill 


•(■■ 


w 

K'i-^ 

m 

V 

i 

f 

If. 

't" 

1 

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tc 


'I 


ii-  ?f 


)M 


"  Tfir/?    HATTLK    OP  POSTRfiOY.** 


Mlsi  ODonnell  came  over  from  C^itleford  in  the  my  ol 
the  summer  evening,  Mrith  her  belongings,  but  alone.  Sir  Ar 
^ar  Tregen?«a  had  sought  out  the  chasseur  at  his  fishing  stream, 
and  the  twain  would  return  together  to  dinner.  She  was  shown 
to  her  roomf  and  excnanged  her  dark  giay  dress  for  a  dinne* 
lobe  of  blue  silk,  the  hue  of  her  eyes,  and  descended  to  find  hei 
hostess  and  cousin  spending  the  long  hour  before  dinner  on  tht 
fdvety  lawn  sloping  away  beneath  the  long,  wide,  open 
French  window  of  the  drawing-room.  The  children  were  at 
play  on  the  terrace  below,  where  gaudy  peacocks  strutted  in 
the  iiin,  a  million  le9.ves  fluttered  cool  and  green  above  them, 
and  birds  caroled  in  the  dark  shade  of  the  branches.  Misi 
Hemcastle,  in  her  gray  silk  dress,  sat  at  a  little  distance,  her 
fingers  flying  among  my  lady's  laces.  I^dy  Cec*l  bent  over  a 
book,  her  fair,  delicate  face  and  slight,  graceful  figure  outlined 
against  the  golden  and  pur^ile  light  of  the  sunset,  lilies  in  her 
bronze  hair,  a  cluster  of  field  lilies  on  her  breast — tall,  slim, 
sweet.  My  lady  leaned  back  lazily  in  her  nistic  chair,  doing 
nothing — it  was  an  amiable  trait  in  this  lady's  character  that 
she  never  did  do  anything — beautifully  dressed,  powdered, 
painted,  coiflfured,  and  awaiting  impatiently  the  arrival  of  the 
dinner  hour  and  the  gentlemen.  Major  Frankland  was  absent 
with  the  earl,  and  her  husband  of  course,  whether  in  his  study 
or  out  of  it,  did  not  count.  In  the  absence  of  the  nobler  sex, 
my  lady  always  collapsed  on  principle — gaping  piteously.  She 
never  read,  she  never  worked,  she  never  thought.  Society  and 
adulation  were  her  stimulants — in  their  absence  life  became  an 
unbearable  bore. 

She  hailed  the  advent  of  Kose  O'Donnell  now  with  relief 
She  couldn't  talk  to  the  governess — thai  were  too  great  conde 
acension — the  children  were  noisy  nuisances,  and  Lady  Ceci* 
was  interested  in  her  book.  The  waving  trees,  the  flushed  sky, 
Ihe  sleeping  sea,  the  silent  emerald  earth — all  the  fair  evening 
prospect  had  no  charm  for  her. 

*'  You  find  us  alone  yet.  Miss  O'  Donnell,"  she  said,  as  Rose 
took  a  seat  near.  "  Our  fishermen  have  not  returned,  and  sol 
Hude  invariably  bores  me  to  death.  Cecil  has  taken  to  litera- 
^are,  as  you  see,  and  is  company  for  no  one.  1  never  read, 
Miss  O'Donnell — ^books  are  all  alike,  hopelessly  stupid  nowa- 
dajra.     What  is  that  you  hare  tb.ere,  Q^ieenie  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  looked  up. 

"Ballads  of  Ireland.     I  came  upon  it  by  chance  in  the 
^brary  half  an  hon:^  aga    T  am  reading  the  battle  tA  FoateiMy. 


-  r/y/r    ^ATTLK    OF  kOhftRNOV,^ 


MS 


Miti  O'Donnell,  did  any  of  your  anamtors  fight  at  the  battlr  O 
Fontcnoy  ?  " 

"  So  the  legends  of  onr  house  say,  at  least  *  And  by  the 
Hune  token/  as  Lanty  would  observe,  it  was  a  Redmond 
ODonnell  who  fought  and  fell  on  the  fatal  field  of  Fontenoy.*' 

\jiAy  Dangerfield  iiooked  interested. 

"  A  Rodmoni  O'Donnell.  Really  I  Read  it,  Quccnic»  will 
jfOtt  ?  " 

"  Never  read  aloud,"  I.ady  Cecil  answered  ;  "it  it  an  ac- 
oimplishment  I  do  not  possess."  She  glanced  suddenly  at  the 
busy  fingers  of  the  governess. 

"  Miss  Hemcastle,"  she  called. 

Miss  Hemcastle  paused  in  her  work,  and  looked  up. 

"  You  will  read  it  to  Lady  Dangerfield,  will  you  not  ?  Some- 
how I  think  ^'^w  can  read  aloud." 

"  I  can  try,"  Miss  Hemcastle  answered.  Sht  laid  down  her 
work,  advanced,  took  the  book,  and  stool  u,i  before  her  auditors. 
The  last  light  of  the  setting  siin  shone  full  upon  her  tall,  statu- 
esque figure,  her  pale,  changeless  face,  locked  ever  in  the 
passionless  calm  of  marble.  She  began.  Yes,  Miss  Hemcastle 
could  read  aloud — I>.ady  Cecil  had  l^een  right.  What  a  won- 
drously  musical  voice  it  was — so  deep,  so  calm,  so  sweet.  She 
made  a  very  striking  picture  standing  there,  outlined  against 
the  purple  gloaming,  the  sunlight  gilding  her  face  and  her  dead- 
black  hair.  So  thought  Rose  O'Donnell,  so  thought  Lady 
Cecil  Clive,  so  thought  two  gentleman  advancing  slowly,  un- 
seen and  unheard,  up  the  avenue,  under  the  trees — Sir  Aithuf 
Tregenna  and  Captain  O' Donned.  Both,  as  if  by  some  simui 
taneous  impulse,  stopped  to  listen. 

"  '  Puih  OB,  my  household  cavalry  I '   King  Ix>uis  madly  cried  ; 
To  d«Uh  they  nish,  but  ntric  their  shock— not  unavenged  thry  died 
Ob  tbnugh  ute  camp  the  column  trod— King[  l>ouis  turns  bis  relm. 
'  Not  yat,  my  liege,*  Saxe  interposed,  '  tlic  Insh  troop*  reroain.' 

"  '  Lord  Clare,*  he  &ay&,  '  you  have  your  wish  ;  there  arc  your  Saxon  Ibm  \ 

Tko  marsh..:  almost  smiles  to  see,  so  furiously  he  goes  \ 

How  fierce  the  look  these  exiles  wear,  who're  wont  to  be  so  gay, 

Tho  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  in  their  hearts  to-day — 

The  treaty  broken  ere  the  ink  wherewith  'twas  writ  could  dr>', 

Their  plun-lered  homes,  their  ruined  shrines,  their  women's  parting  fx% 

Thoir  priesthood  hunted  down  like  wolves,  their  country  ovothrown — 

Eadi  looks  as  if  revenge  for  all  were  staked  on  hint  alone. 

On,  Fontenoy— on,  hontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  elt^where 

BlttMMd  on  to  ficht  a  nobler  hand  tlian  tiicss  prcii.d  exiles 


**  O^Brloa'l  r«k«  Is  hoarse  w{t>i  joy,  ak  hcte^;^^^  be  oomraaada, 
'Fl»  Wy'net^— charge  1 '  like  mounts*. n  ntcj:?:-;  -'-t^ki  «u  tl\et.e 
Tbia  b  tiM  Eafluh  column  now,  and  faint  thi^  «<r,iteTs  S">*'> 
jet  ■utC'iiM  aB  «&e  strength  tbey  have  they  K^ake  a  gaBant  skow  j 
XVey  iTOwabelr  rsoV*  tiixwi  the  hill  to  Cbos  **»^  battle  w{nd~" 


^;!l 


Li 


•n, 


I 


IJ6 


••  THlf.    BATTI.n    OF   PONTES^OIf} 


n  i'^ 


1lM4r  iMyc'tcu  the  breakerft*  foam  ;  like  rock^  the  men  ttcbla4  t 

0«e  voUey  cra^.hes  fr"tn  Ihcir  i-.ne,  *f,en  thr'  ui{h  the  nurti^^C 
With  empty  gtin.H  clutched  in  their  h.ir<i»,  tiic  headlong  Iruh 
Ob«  Fontenoy  -on,  Koiucnoy,  \\x<\  to  ital  ftcnx  hiitu*  I 
'R«««iige  I     Keiuember  Limerick  I    iJaih  down  the  Sauenagh  I' 

"Uka  Uons  leaping  at  a  fold  when  uiitd  with  hunf^er's  ;>ang, 

lllht  up  against  the  Kiiglinh  line  the  Irish  exiles  sprang  I 

Bnfht  was  their  steel,  'tis  bloody  now,  their  guns  are  filled  with  rav ; 

Through  shattered  ranks,  and  severed  hies  and  trampled  flags  thsy  I 

Th«  English  strove  with  desperate  strenkjth,  paused,  rallii^d,  i 

The  green  hillside  is  nutted  close  with  dying  auJ  >*ith  dead 

Acrou  the  plaiu  and  far  away  paiised  on  that  hideous  wrack, 

While  cavalier  ard  iantassin  dash  in  udou  their  track. 

On,  Foiitcnof— on,  Fontenov,  like  eagles  in  the  tun. 

With  bloody  plunMt  the  Irian  atand— the  field  it  fought  and  wob  I  " 

She  paused.  Sweet,  clear,  thrilling  as  a  bugle  blast  rang  out 
!&»«  stirring  words.  A  light  leaped  into  her  eyes,  a  glow  came 
over  her  pale  face  ;  every  heart  there  stirred  under  the  ring  ol 
her  tone,  her  look,  her  gesture  as  she  ceased. 

"By  Jupiter!"  Redmond  O'Donnell  exclaimed,  under  hid 
breath,  "  that  woman  is  a  marvel." 

Lady  Cecil  stretched  out  her  hand  for  the  book,  a  look  ol 
surprised  admiration  in  her  eyes. 

"  Miss  Hemcastle,"  she  said,  "  you  read  that  splendidly.  The 
poet  shor'd  have  heard  you.  I  knew  yon  could  read  but  not 
like  that.     You  are  a  born  actress." 

llie  governess  bowed,  smiled,  and  walked  back  with  inmiov- 
able  composure  to  her  place. 

"  Shall  we  approach  now  ?  "  Sir  Arthur  said,  in  a  constrained 
Toice. 

There  was  no  reply.  He  looked  at  his  companion — the 
eyes  of  Redmond  O'Donnell  were  fixed  on  Miss  Herncaatle 
with  such  a  look  of  utter  wonder — of  sheer  amaze  and  of  rtc- 
^gniiicn—  that  the  baronet  stared  at  him  in  turn.  Standing 
Ihere  it  had  flashed  upon  him  like  an  inspiration  where  he  had 
leen  Miss  Hemcastle  before.  He  started  like  a  man  from  a 
Inace  at  the  sound  of  the  baronet's  surprised  voice. 

**  How  thunderstruck  you  look,  O'Donnell,"  he  said,  with  ft 
taich  of  impatience  in  his  tone  ;  "  did  you  never  before  hear 
t  lady  read  ?  " 

The  half-irritated  words  fully  aroused  hini. 

Redmond  O'DonneN  turned  away  from  the  governess  with  a 
slight  laugh. 

"  Rarely  like  that,  men  ami.  And  1  have  just  solved  a  rid- 
dle that  ^s  puzzled  me  since  last  night.  I  think  1  have  lutf} 
*hit  pleasure  of  both  seeing  and  hearing  Lady  Dangerfield's  Ttry 
ffflwrkabb  fovemess  before  to-dajr." 


1 


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TMM   HYSTBRY  0$    BRACICEN  FOLLOW,  ||^ 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

TBI    MYSTKRY   Of    BRACKEN    HOLLOW. 

IISS  HKRNCASTLE'S  audience  had  been  kcreiMl 
by  still  two  more.  The  Earl  of  Ruysland  and  Majoi 
Fraukland,  sauntering  up  the  avenue,  had  also  paiue^ 
afar  oflf  to  listen.  Against  the  rose  and  guid  light  ol 
the  summer  sunset,  Miss  Herncastle's  tall  figure  and  stufktng  (kce 
made  a  very  impressive  picture.  It  wau  a  pretty  tabltiau  alto* 
gether :  Lady  Cecil,  fair,  languid,  swecl ;  my  lady  in  her  rich 
robes  and  sparkUng  jewels;  Rose  O'DonncU  with  her  sriiall, 
piquant  face  literally  seeming  all  eyes ;  and  the  accessories  of 
waving  trees,  luminous  sky,  tinkling  fountains,  and  fragrant 
floweri. 

"  Ah  I "  lx>rd  Ruysland  said,  when  the  spell  was  broken  and 
tte  and  his  companion  moved  on  once  more,  "  what  have  we 
here?  A  second-rate  actress  from  the  Surrey  side  of  the 
Thames  ?  Upon  my  life,  so  much  histrionic  talent  is  quite 
tturown  away.  Miss  Hemcastle  (I  wonder  if  her  father's  name 
was  Hemcastle,  by  the  bye  ?)  is  wasting  her  sweetness  on 
desert  air.  On  the  boards  of  Drury  Lane  her  rendering  ol 
Fontenoy  would  be  good  for  at  least  two  rounds  from  pit  and 
gallery.  Bravo  I  Miss  Hemcastle  ! "  He  bowed  before  hei 
wsm  with  the  stately  courtliness  of  his  youth.  "  I  have  read  of 
e»4ertaining  angels  unawares — are  we  entertaining  a  modern 
1»  ars,  all  unknown  until  now  ?  " 

The  covert  sneer  that  generally  embellished  everything  this 
o«<ble  peer  said  was  so  covert,  that  only  a  very  sensitive  ear 
ceuld  have  caught  it.     Miss  Hemcastle  caught  it  and  lifted  her 
great  gray  eyes  for  one  moment  to  his  face — full,  steadily 
Something  in  the  grave,  clear  eyes  seemed  to  disconcert  him- 
be  stopped  abruptly  and  turned  away  from  her. 

"  Gad  1 "  he  thought,  "  it  is  strange.  Nevei  saw  such  an  un- 
ftcoountable  likeness  in  all  my  life.  She  has  looked  at  me  a 
thousand  times  with  just  such  a  look  as  Miss  Hemcastle  gave 
me  now.  Cenfoimd  Miss  Hemcastle  !  What  the  deuce  does 
the  young  woman  mean,  by  looking  so  horribly  like  other 
women  dead  and  gone  ?  " 

He  tamed  from  the  party  and  walked  with  a  sulky  sense  o'^ 
b^ory  into  the  house.  But  all  the  way  up  to  his  room,  ail  tht 
nme  the  elaborate  mysteries  of  the  toilet  were  going  on  (and 


1. 
If 


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TMS,   MY3TLRV   Of  BRACKEN  HOLL(  W, 


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'! 


the  myitehes  of  l^y  Dangcrfield's  herself  were  plaii.  teAdir^ 
compared  to  this  old  dandy  of  the  ancient  regime),  all  die  tinvir 
theie  strong,  steady  gray  eyes  pursued  him  like  an  uncomforta 
bie  ghost 

"Hans  Miss  Hemcastle,"  again  the  noble  earl  growled 
"Cecil  doesn't  lo<jk  like  her  mother; — what  business,  Ihefi 
has  an  utter  strangei  to  resemble  her  in  this  absurd  way  ?  If  i 
tike  living  in  the  house  with  a  nightmare  ;  my  digestion  is  Qp 
•et  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  It's  deucedly  unpleasant  and,  egad  ( 
I  think  I  must  ask  Ginevra  to  dismiss  her,  if  she  continues  to 
disturb  me  in  this  way." 

Redmond  O'Donnell  had  stood  a  little  aloof,  stroking  his 
muBtache  meditatively,  and  gazing  ar  the  governess.  A  per- 
fumed blow  of  a  fan  on  the  arm,  a  sott  little  laugh  in  his  ear,  re- 
called him. 

"  *And  still  he  gazed,  and  still  me  wonder  grew  1'  Is  Mist 
Hemcastle  the  Gorgon's  head,  or  is  it  a  case  of  love  at  sight 
In  either  event,  let  me  present  you  and  exorcise  the  spell." 

It  was  Lady  Cecil's  smiling  face  that  he  turned  to  see.  Lad/ 
Cecil,  who,  with  a  wave  of  that  fragrant  fan,  summoned  the  gov- 
erness to  her  side. 

"  Miss  Hemcastle,  take  compassion  on  this  wretched  erile 

of  Erin,  and  say  something  consolatory  to  him.     He  standi 

helplessly  here  and  '  sighs   and  looks,  sighs  and  looks,  sighs 

tid  looks,  and  looks  again.'     Captain  Redmond  O'Donnell, 

Lt  Beau  Chasseur — Miss  Hemcastle." 

She  flitted  away  as  she  spoke  with  a  saucy,  backward  glance 
at  Le  Beau  Chasseur ^  and  up  to  her  cousin  Ginevra. 

"Oh,  if  you  please,  my  lady,"  with  a  little  housemaid's  com- 
teiy,  "I  have  a  favor  to  ask.     Don't  banish  poor  Miss  Hera 
castle  to  mope  to  death  in  the  dreary  upper  region  of  the  nui 
•ery  and  school-room.     She  is  a  lady — treat  her  as  such — yons 
guest — treat  her  as  a  guest.     Let  her  come  to  dinner." 

"  Queenie  1  Miss  Hemcastle  to  dinner  I  My  guest  I  What 
Quixotic  nonsense  you  talk.  She  is  my  dependant,  not  my 
fiiitor." 

"  That  is  her  misfortune,  not  her  fault.  Miss  Hemcastle  if 
a  lady  to  her  finger  tips,  and  fifty  times  cleverer  than  you  or  I. 
See  how  she  interests  all  the  gentlemen.  Issue  your  com- 
mands, O  Empress  of  Scarswood  She  will  make  oar  heavy 
baSHy  dinner  go  o£" 

"  Interett    the  gentlemen  1     Ves,    I   should  say   mk     Slie 
to  entertain  Captain  O'Donnell  and  Sir  Arthur  Trcfeno? 


rsar  MYsrAKv  of  hracken  hollow. 


SIf 


ptotty  thoroughly  at  this  moment.  Queenic,  1  doD't  onderttaAd 
jrou ;  ypu  should  be  the  last  on  earth  to  ask  for  much  of  MLm 
Heracastle.     Where  are  your  eyes  ?  " 

"  In  their  old  situation.  You  don't  understand  me?"  Lady 
Cecil  laughed  a  little,  and  glanced  over  at  the  two  gentlemen 
to  whom  the  tall  governess  talked.  "  No,  perhaps  not — pcr- 
fiaps  1  don't  quite  understand  myself  Never  mind  that ;  per- 
haps I  like  Miss  Herncastle — perhaps  the  spell  of  the  enchan- 
Irets  is  over  me,  too.  We  won't  ask  questions,  like  a  good 
tittle  cousin ;  we  will  only  ask  Miss  (lemcastle  to  dinner  Xi> 
day,  tC)-morrow,  and  all  the  to-morrows  ?  " 

*•  Well,  certainly,  Queenie,  if  you  really  wish  it  ;  but  I  con- 
fess I  carit  understand--" 

"  Don't  try,  ma  chhre ;  *  where  ignorance  is  bliss,  'tis  folly  to 
be  wise.'  Once  a  lady,  always  a  lady,  is  it  not  ?  and  though 
Miss  Herncastle  be  a  governess  to^lay,  she  has  been  some- 
thing  far  different  in  days  gone  by.  Thanks  for  this  favor. 
Let  yoia  invitation  be  gracious,  Ginevra,  as  your  invitations 
can  be  when  von  like." 

She  turned  away  and  walked  into  the  house.  Her  cousin 
looked  after  her  with  a  perp^  xed  face.  What  c<mld  Queeni# 
mean  ?  Why,  it  was  plain  as  the  rose-light  yonder  in  the  west 
thatt  Sir  Arthur  Trcgenna  was  going  to  fall  in  love  with  her ; 
Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  who  had  come  down  here  ex]jressly  to 
fidl  in  love  with  Lady  Cecil  Clive ;  Sir  Arthur,  in  whom  all 
Lady  Cecil's  hopes  and  ambitions  should  be  centered.  And 
here  was  Lady  Cecil  now  begging  this  inconvenient  governess 
might  be  brought  forward,  thrown  into  his  society,  treated  at 
Rii  equal,  and  lef^  to  work  her  Circean  spells. 

"  It's  the  strangest  thing  I  ever  heird  of — it's  absurd,  pre- 
posterous. However,  as  I  have  promised,  I  suppose  I  must 
perform.  And  wtial  will  Uncle  F.^oul  say?  I  shall  keep  an 
t^t.  upon  you  thii>  &ist  evening,  Miss  Herncastle,  and  if  I  find 
jrou  attempt  to  entrap  Sir  Arthur,  your  first  evening  will  be 
four  last" 

Miss  Hemcasdc's  two  cavaliers  fell  back  aa  my  lady  ap- 
pear<xi  The  other  gentlemen  had  gone  to  their  rooms  to 
dress  for  dinuei ;  those  two  followed  now.  Captain  O'Donnell's 
share  in  the  con  vci  bat  ion  had  been  slight,  but  there  was  a  looii 
of  conviction  on  his  face  as  he  ran  up  to  his  room. 

"It  is  she,"  he  balii  to  himself;  "there  is  not  a  doabtabeiait 
11     A  nursery  goveniesSk     Rather  a  disagreeable   change,  J 


I'i 


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340 


TSB  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW. 


ihould  imagine,  after  the  Ufe  she  has  left.     What  in  the  luunt 
of  all  that  is  mysterious  can  have  brought  her  here  ?  " 

Miss  Hemcastle  listened  in  grave  surprise  as  my  lady  terielj 
and  curtly  issued  her  commands. 

•^  It  is  my  desir:,  at  the  solicitation  of  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  Mitt 
Herncastle,  that  you  dine  with  us  to-day,"  she  said,  snappishly. 
"There  is  no  necessity  for  any  change  tn  your  dress.  You  aif 
'%€^  enough/' 

Miss  Hemcastle  was  robed  like  a  Quakeicav,  in  gray  silk,  c 
pearl  brooch  fastening  her  lace  collar,  and  a  knot  of  blue  ri& 
son  in  her  hair.  She  looked  doubtfully  at  my  lady  as  she 
fistened. 

"  Lady  Cecil  Clive  wishes  me  to  dine  with  you  to-day,  my 
lady  ?  "  she  repeated,  as  though  not  sure  she  had  heard  arighl. 

"I  have  said  so,"  my  lady  replied,  still  more  snappishly.  "J 
Jk>n't  pretend  to  understand  only  she  does,  that  is  enough. 
Lady  Cecil's  wishes  are  invariably  mine." 

Ajid  then  my  lady,  with  her  silken  train  sweeping  majesti 
cally  behind  her,  sailed  away,  and  the  governess,  who  had  so 
signally  come  to  honor,  was  left  alone — alone  with  the  paling 
splendor  of  the  sunset,  with  the  soft  flutter  of  the  July  winf 
irkh  the  twitter  of  the  birds  in  the  branches,  and  the  peacocks 
promenading  to  and  fro  on  the  stone  terraces.  These  peacocks, 
with  their  stately  stmt  and  outstretched  tails,  bore  an  absurd 
resemblance  to  my  lady  herself,  and  Miss  Herncastle's  darkly 
thotightfiil  (ace  broke  into  a  smile  as  she  saw  it 

"  As  the  queen  pleases,"  she  said,  with  a  shmg.  '*  And  1 
am  to  dine  with  the  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Ruysland,  the 
I«ady  Cecily  and  two  baronets.  Some  of  us  are  bom  great, 
some  achieve  jfueatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thnist  upoa 
them.  I  am  ^iic  of  the  latter,  it  appears.  I  thought  ihr 
power  to  wonder  at  anything  earthly  had  left  me  forever,  but  * 
wonder — T  wonder  what  Lady  Cecil  means  by  this." 

Miss  Hemcastle,  the  governess,  half  an  hour  later  sat  dowr 
among  this  very  elegant  company  at  dinner.  Sir  Peter  Dan 
gerfield  scowled  through  his  eye-glass  as  ho  took  his  seat. 

'*  What  the  deuce  does  this  mean  ?  "  he  thought,  savagely , 
"  bringing  the  brats'  governess  to  dinner.  To  annoy  me,  noth 
tag  else  ;  that's  her  amtcijie  motive  always  to  annoy  me." 

Miss  Hemcastle  found  herself  placed  between  the  Earl  o/ 
Huysiu^nd  and  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna.  The  earl,  immaculateij 
got  up,  spotless,  ruffled,  snowy  linen,  tail  coat,  rose  in  hi$ 
9ntt<»n-hol*.    liamr-nd  rinjj  on  his  finger,   hair  pcrfiiraedL   ars^ 


fi 


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TUB  MYSTRRY   OF  BkACKRN  ITOLLOW. 


w 


k»ndi  white  and  delicate  as  hi&.  Uughter's  own,  looked  the 
whole  patrician  Peerage  of  Kngland  personified  in  himaell 
And  with  all  the  suave  gallantry  of  a  latter-day  Chesteraeld  he 
padd  compliments  and  mavle  himself  eminently  agreeable  to  the 
lady  by  whom  he  was  seated.  His  digestion  might  be  upset^ 
his  peace  of  mind  destroyed  by  the  proximity,  but  hit  hand 
lome  (ace  was  placid  as  a  summer  lake. 

"  Your  reading  of  that  poem  was  something  quite  wonderful^ 
Milt  iTemcastle,  I  give  you  my  word.  I  have  heard  some  of 
the  best  elocutionists  of  the  day — on  the  stage  and  ofl  it— 
but  upon  my  life,  my  dear  young  lady,  you  might  make  the  best 
of  them  look  to  their  laurels.  1  wonder  now,  with  your  talents 
and — pardon  an  old  man — your  personal  appearance,  you  have 
never  turned  your  thoughts  in  that  direction — the  stage  I  mean. 
It  is  our  gain  at  present,  but  it  is  the  loss  of  the  theatrical 
world." 

Miss  Hemcastle  smiled — supremely  at  her  ease. 

'*  Yonr  lordship  is  pleased  to  be  complimentary  or  sarcastic 
'the  latter,  1  greatly  fear.  It  is  one  thing  to  read  a  poem 
decently,  and  quite  another  to  electrify  the  world  as  I^dy 
Macbeth.  I  may  teach  children  of  nine  to  spell  words  of  two 
syllables  and  the  nine  parts  of  speech,  but  i  fear  I  would  re 
crive  more  hisses  than  vivas  on  the  boards  of  the  Princess." 

Ry  some  chance  she  looked  up  as  she  finished  speaking,  and 
met  a  pair  of  dark,  keen  eyes  looking  at  her  across  the  table, 
with  the  strangest,  most  sarcastic  look.  Those  cynical  blue 
eyc»  belonged  to  the  Irish- African  soldier,  Captain  O'DonrulL 
He  smiled  as  he  met  her  gaze 

'*  ^fi8S  Hemcastle  does  herself  less  thai;  justice,"  he  said 
very  slowly.  "A  great  actress  she  rnti^ht  never  be — Ke  b.ivir 
5IO  great  actresses  nowadays— bnt  a  clever  actress,  1  am  verv 
fore.  As  to  Lady  Macbfth,  \  have  nc  lueaus  of  kncwiT^g,  hv'- 
ni  the  character  of  Ophelia  now,  1  am  quite  certain,  she  woulo 
be  charming." 

Misi  Hemcastle' s  steady  hand  w<u>  lifting  a  glass  of  chau~ 
parne.     The  sudden  and  great  start  she  gave  overset  the  glass 
and  spilled  the  wine. 

"  How  awkward  I  am  !"  ^he  said  with  a  laugh  ;  "if  I  com- 
mit such  gaucherits  as  this,  i'  fear  Lady  Dangerfield  will  rcpen* 
having  invited  her  govemes8  to  dinner.  ThALik*,  my  lord ; 
dcn't  trouble  yoiirself ;  my  dress  h:i'j  t"oC.aj>e(l' 

In  th«  iriSing  confusion  f^f  ^he  arxideDl  <.'ft.»,itijn  O'Dor.'Uciri 
jBt3jf*d  unanswrrrd,  And  it  wits   notice* We  that  Mi«ii 


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343 


TBE  MYSTERY  OF   BRACKEN  HOLUOW. 


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Hemcastle  took  care  not  to  meet  those  steel-blue  tyta  caet 
■gain  until  the  ladies  left  the  table. 

It  was  he  who  sprang  up  and  held  the  door  open  for  them, 
tnd  as  she  swept  by  last,  she  lifted  her  large  eyes  suddenly,  and 
Khot  hira  a  piercing  glance.  He  bowed  slightly;  Eniiled  slightly, 
^SD  the  door  closed,  and  the  gentlemen  diew  up,  charged  and 
tofested. 

It  was  rather  remarkable  'hat  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  iifaaU|i 
Jie  most  abstemious  of  men,  drank  much  more  wine  than  any 
Wic  there  had  ever  seen  him  drink  before.  Major  Frankland, 
from  his  place  at  the  end  of  the  table,  saw  it,  and  shmgged  his 
shoulders  with  a  so/to  voce  comment  to  his  neighbor  O'Donnell 

"Used  to  be  absurdly  temr-rate — a  very  anchorite,  what 
ever  an  anchorite  may  be.  I  don't  know  whether  you  hav» 
noticed,  but  all  the  men  who  iiave  lost  their  heads  for  Ruys 
land's  peerless  daugliter  and  been  rejected,  have  taken  to  port 
and  sherry,  and  stronger  still.  It  seems  to  be  synonymous — 
(ailing  in  love  with  Lady  Cecil ,  and  falling  a  victim  to  strong 
drink." 

"  Well,  yes,  it  does,"  the  chasseur  responded.  "  I  rcmena 
ber  Annesly  Carruthers,  in  Paris,  used  to  jump  to  his  feet,  hall 
sprung,  with  flashing  eyes  and  flowing  goblet,  and  cry,  '  Here's 
to  La  Reine  Blanche — Heaven  bless  her  ! '  1  wonder  if  that 
tipsy  prayer  was  heard  ?  He  took  to  hard  drinking  after  sh-^ 
jilted  him ;  he  used  to  b«i  pretty  sober  before.  There  seems 
to  be  a  fatality  about  it,"  the  young  irishman  said,  reflectively, 
61hng  his  own  glass.  "  Powercourt  drank  himself  blind,  too, 
exchanged  into  a  line  regiment  ordered  to  Canada,  and  he  was 
seldom  drunk  more  than  three  times  a  week,  before  she  did  fc? 
him.  I  wonder  how  it  is  !  She  doesn't  order  *em  to  *  Fill  the 
bumper  fair ;  every  drop  they  sprinkle  o'er  the  brow  of  Care 
smoothes  away  a  wrinkle,'  you  don't  suppose,  does  she?" 

**  I  don't  suppose  Tregenna's  one  of  her  victims,  certainly," 
responded  Frarkland,  "  Lucky  beggar  I  he's  safe  to  win,  with 
'lis  long  rent-roll  and  longer  lineag    ' 

"Ah  !  awfully  old  family,  I'm  given  to  understand,"  O'Don- 
nell said  ;  "  were  baron*  ip  the  davs  of  Edward  the  Confessor 
and  William  the  other  fellow.  But  then  Zti  Reine  Blanche  has 
iuch  a  talent  for  breaking  hearts  and  taming  heads ;  and  what 
a  woman  may  do  in  any  given  j)hase  of  life  i;?.  %%  Lord  Own 
«5»«ary  says,  *  One  of  these  things  no  feii.?h  can  vrraler^tand.*  " 

They  adjourned  to  the  drawing-iacsa,  whence  sc,unds o( mosK 

f*dy  cMin^  waftrd  through  the  open  window^  but  In  tb* 


If 


■t; 


inly," 
I,  with 


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what 
I>nn 

ld.»  •* 

lOBK 

In  thf 


ffVE  MVSrMJfV  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW, 


341 


tewing-room  they  found  Miss  Hemcastle  alone.  The  ■oft^ 
fflTeryDeauty  of  the  twilight  had  tempted  the  rest  oat  on  tlic 
lawn.  Lady  Cecil  sat  in  her  rustic  chair,  humming  an  open 
iir,  and  watching  with  pensive,  dreamy  eyes  the  moon  lift  itf 
lilyer  sickle  over  the  far-o£f  hills.  And  Lady  Dangerfield  and 
Rom  ODonnell  sat  chatting  of  feminine  fashions  and  the  Uil 
fweet  thing  in  bonnets. 

The  gentlemen  joined  them — that  is,  with  the  exception  «f 
the  Cornish  baronet.  Music  was  his  passion,  and  then  Mim 
Hemcastle  had  looked  up  with  a  telling  glance  and  smile,  and 
lome  slight  remark  as  he  went  by — slight,  but  sutficient  to 
draw  him  to  her  side,  and  hold  him  there.  The  earl  lingered 
also,  but  afar  off,  and  buried  in  the  downy  depths  of  a  pufi^ 
silken  chair,  let  himself  be  gently  lulled  to  sleep.  Major  Frank 
land,  as  a  matter  of  course,  joined  Sir  Peter's  wife,  and  Sii 
Peter,  with  a  sheet  of  white  paper,  and  some  corks,  on  which 
moths  were  impaled,  and  a  net,  went  in  search  of  glow-worms. 
And  Captain  O'Donnell  flung  his  six  feet  of  manhood  fuB 
length  on  the  velvet  sward  at  the  feet  of  the  earl's  daughter, 
the  delicious  sea-scented  evening  wind  lifting  his  brown  haii, 
and  gazed  serenely  up  at  the  star-studded  sky. 

"  Neat  thing — very  neat  thing.  Lady  Cecil,  in  the  way  of 
moonrise.  How  Christian  like,  how  gentle,  how  calm,  how 
happy  a  man  feels  after  dinner !  Ah,  if  life  could  be  *  always 
afternoon,'  and  such  turf  as  this,  and  such  a  sky  as  that,  and 
one  might  lie  at  Beauty's  feet,  and — smoke  !  Smoking  is  use- 
ftd  among  flowers,  too — kills  the  aphides  and  all  thai,  and  if 
Lady  Ccol  will  permit — " 

"  Lady  Cecil  permits,"  I^ady  Cecil  said,  laughing ;  *'  produce 
man's  best  comforter,  Captain  O'Donnell ;  light  up,  and  kill 
the  aphides." 

Captain  O'Donnell  obeyed ;  he  produced  a  cigar  case,  m 
iected  carefully  a  weed,  lit  up,  and  fumigated. 

**Thi«  is  peace — this  is  bliss  ^  why,  oh  why  need  it  evei 
end;  Lady  Cecil,  what  are  you  reading?"  He  took  her 
iMok. 

"  Pretty,  I  know,  by  all  this  azure  and  Riding.  Ah,  to  be 
■ire,  Owen  Meredith— always  Owen  Meredith.  How  the  ladiss 
do  worship  that  fellow.  Cupid's  darts,  broken  hearts,  silvery 
beams,  rippling  streams,  vows  here  and  there,  love  everywhere. 
Yes,  yes,  the  old  story,  despair,  broken  vows,  broken  hearts — 
ilfi  their  stock  in  trade." 

**  And  of  course  such  things  as  oroken  vowi  and  broken 


■  :,  1,  ' 


|44  TMM  MVSriLMY  OF  BKACKES  HOLLOW^, 


;i?  ' 


I  ■ 


lieuts  only  serve  to  string  a  poetaster's  rhymes.     We  all 
tfiat  in  read  life  there  is  no  such  thing." 

**We  know  nothing  of  the  sort  Hearts  are  broken  eTcrf 
daxi  and  their  owners  not  a  wit  the  worse  for  it  in  the  end 
Better,  if  anything.  '  The  heart  may  break,  yet  brokenly  liTf 
on,'  sighs  and  sings  the  most  lachrymose  of  all  poets,  and  I 
agree  with  him.  Live  on  uncommonly  well,  and  if  the  piecei 
^  properly  cemented,  grow  all  the  stronger  for  the  breakage.** 

*' Captain  O'Donnell  speaks  for  himself,  of  course;  and 
Irishmen's  hearts  are  the  most  elastic  organs  going.  Give 
me  my  book,  sir,  and  d(jn*t  be  so  horribly  cynical." 

"  Cynical,  am  I  ?  Well,  yes,  perhaps  I  am — cynicism  is,  I 
believe,  the  nineteenth  century  name  for  truth.  Hallo  I  what* s 
all  this?  There's  my  fellow  Lanty,  with  a  letter  in  his  hand, 
and  what  hcu  he  done  to  Sir  Peter  ?  " 

"  Lanty — Lanty  Laflferty !  How  glad  I  am  to  see  Lanty, 
He  has  murdered  some  of  poor  Peters  beetles  I'm  afraid — the 
slaughter  of  the  innocents  over  again.  See  how  excited  the 
baronet  is  over  it." 

It  was  Lanty,  and  l^anty  had  murdered  a  beetle.  He  had 
espied  it  crawling  slowly  along  Sir  Peter's  nice  white  sheet  of 
paper,  and  had  given  it  a  sudden  dexterous  whip  with  a  branch 
of  lilac  and — annihilated  it  Sir  Peter  sprang  to  his  feet  with 
flashing  eyes. 

''fiow  dare  you,  sir  \  how  dare  you  kill  my  specimen,  the 
finest  I  have  found  this  summer  ?  How  dare  you  do  it,  yon 
muddle-headed  Irishman  ?  " 

For  Lanty*  s  nationality  was  patent  to  the  world.  Lanty 
pulled  off  his  hat  now,  and  made  the  baronet  a  politely  depre- 
dating bow. 

'*  How  dar  I  do  it  ?  Is  it  dar  to  kill  a  dirthy  cockroach  ? 
Shinre  yer  honor's  joking  1  Faith  I  wish  I  had  a  shillin'  for 
K'<ary  wan  av  thim  I've  kUled  in  my  day ;  it's  not  a  footboy  I'd 
1^  CIS  lis  minit  Begorra  I  thought  I  was  doin'  ye  a  good  turn. 
^H^^aC,  ye  seen  yerself^  it  was  creepin'  over  the  clane  paper,  a 
hk^,  black,  creepin*  divil  av  a  cockroach." 

<^'  Cocicroach,  you  fool !  I  tell  you  it  was  a  specimen  of  the 
Biaita  Orienialis — the  finest  specmien  of  the  BloHa  Orienimlit 
I  ever  saw." 

"  Oh,  Mother  o'  Moses  I " 

'*  And  you  must  come  along,  yos  thick-heai^  nombsknUi 
sftcr  all  the  trouble  I've  had  with  d.  md  kill  it  Aijd  oniy^fcvQ 
4«lfB  •in<ce  »*  Yas  bom,  you  blundering  bog-trotter  1  ^ 


'4v 


MV^Tfiif*    OF    f^hACKRN  HOLLOW, 


the 
yoo 


;r,  t 


LUU, 

two 


34} 


Mr.  I^afferty's  expression  was  fine,  as  he  regsjded  thi 
■Dashed  cockroach  and  the  little  baronet  with  mingled  louki 
of  compassion  and  contempt. 

♦'  Bom,  is  it  ?  Thini  dhjrty  little  bastes  !  £orn  !  oh,  wirr*  1 
Maybe  it  was  christened,  loo  t     Faix,  I  wudn't  wondher  at  ail  1  ^ 

With  which  Lanty  took  his  departure,  and  Approaching  hit 
siistress,  presented  his  letter  with  a  bow. 

"  Miss  Rose,  alana !  a  bit  av  a  letther  av  ye  i^dasc.  Afi' 
meeelf  8  thinkin'  from  thim  postmaks  that  it's  from  the  onW 
manseei  himself,  in  New  Orleans  beyant." 

"Lanty!"  called  the  sweet,  clear  voice  y{  Lady  Cecil, 
'*  come  here,  and  tell  me  if  you  have  quite  forgotten  the  truuble- 
lome  mistress  of  Torryglen,  for  whom  you  performed  so  many 
innumerable  services  in  days  gone  by  ?  You  may  have  forgot, 
ten,  ajd  grown  cynical  and  disagreeable — like  raaiter  like  man 
— but  /have  not." 

She  held  out  her  white-ringed,  slim  hand,  and  Mr.  Lafferty 
touched  it  gingerly,  and  bowed  before  that  fair,  gracious,  smil- 
ing face,  his  own  beaming  with  pleasure. 

•*  Forget  ye,  is  it  ?  Upon  me  conscience,  my  lady,  the  man 
or  woman  isn't  alive  that  cud  do  that  av  they  tried.  Long  life 
to  yer  ladyship  !  It's  well  I  remimber  your  beautiful  face,  and 
troth,  if  s  more  and  more  beautiful  it  gets  every  day." 

"Draw  it  mild,  Lanty,"  Lanly's  master  said,  lazily;  "we  aie 
not  permitted  to  speak  the  truth  to  ladies  about  their  looks, 
when,  as  in  the  present  case,  the  simple  truth  sounds  like  gross 
lattery.  You  may  go  now ;  and  for  the  future,  my  good  fellow, 
let  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield's  black  beetles  alone." 

Mr.  Latferty  departed  accordingly,  giving  the  beetle-hunting 
baronet  a  wide  berth,  as  ordered.  The  next  moment  Rose 
came  hurriedly  over  to  where  her  brother  lay,  still  lazily  Rmok- 
ing  and  star-gazing,  her  open  letter  in  her  hatid. 

"  News  from  New  Orleans,  Redmond,  a  letter  from  grand 
papa.     Madame  de  Lansac  is  very  ill." 

The  twilight  music,  floating  so  softly,  so  sweetly  out  into  tha 
silvery  gloaming,  had  ceased  a  moment  before,  and  the  twa 
figures  at  the  piano  approached  the  open  window,  nearest  Lady 
Cecil  and  the  chasseur.  Miss  Henicastie  had  paused  a  second 
before  joining  the  lawn  party,  something  in  the  Ktarry  moonlit 
klveliness  of  the  fail  English  landscape  stirring  b  •:•  k«art  with  a 
dirob  of  exquisite  remembrance  and  pain.  Sir  Aftisni  iVegcnria 
— gniTe,  somber — by  her  side,  was  very  silent  toe.  Haw  well 
Im  okefi  tp  be  here.,  he  alone  knew  ;  and  yet  hia  place  was  a| 


■4  ifi 


"     \H  : 


'h !  (' 


!■  i 


i^^ 


MYSTERY  OP  BRACKRW  HOLLOW. 


the  feet  of  yonder  fair,  proud  peer's  daughter,  thrice  as  loreSy. 
tturice  as  sweet,  as  this  dark  daughter  of  the  earth,  the  sptll  w 
whose  sorcery  had  fallen  upon  him.  So  standing,  dead  silent 
both,  they  heard  the  words  of  Rose  O'Donnell. 

**  Madame  de  Lansac!" — it  was  Redmond  O'Donnell  wb* 
fipoke,  removing  his  cigar  and  looking  up — "ill  is  she?  I 
dliough^  that  handsome  Creole  was  never  ill.    Nothing  scrioii%  I 

"  It  if  serious — at  least  grandpapa  says  so.  Perhaps  his  feaif 
Aiaggerate  the  danger.     She  is  ill  of  yellow  fever." 

'*  Ah  1  I  should  have  thought  she  was  pretty  well  acclimatedi 
by  this  time.  And  our  infant  uncle,  Rose — how  is  he  ?  Lady 
Cecil,  it  is  not  given  to  every  man  of  eight-and-twenty  to  pos- 
sess an  uncle  four  years  old.  Such  is  my  happy  fortune.  How 
{•  the  Signor  Claude  ?  " 

"  Little  Claude  is  well,"  his  sister  answered.  "  Poor  madame 
—and  \  liked  her  so  much.  Here  is  what  grandpapa  says ; 
•  Deal  Marie,  if  there  is  any  change  for  the  wors's  I  shall  tele- 
graph over  at  once,  and  I  shall  expect  Redmond  \o  send  or 
fetch  you  out  again.  Claude  has  pined  to  a  shadow,  and  calls 
for  Marie  night  and  day.'  So  you  see,  Redmond,  it  may  end 
In  our  returning  after  all.  Still,  I  hope  there  may  t>e  no  neces* 
^ty." 

Miss  O'Donnell  folded  up  her  letter  and  wilked  away. 
»4ady  Cecil  looked  inquiringly  at  her  companion. 

*•  Marie  ?  "  she  said.  "  Your  sister's  name  Km  Rose,  Cap- 
tain O'Donnell,  iw  it  not  ?  " 

"  Rose,  yes ;  Rose  Marie — called  after  her  paternal  and  ma 
temal  grandmothers.  Our  mother  was  a  Frenchwoman — 3 
think  I  told  you  the  family  pedigree  once  before,  didn't  1  ?— 
end  our  grandfather  is  M.  De  Lansac,  of  Menadarva.  Whei? 
Rose  went  out  there,  to  be  brought  up  as  her  grandfather's 
heiress  and  all  that,  the  old  French  grandp^re  changed. 
without  troubling  Congress  in  the  matter,  the  obnoxious  Celtk 
cognomen  of  O'Donnell  for  the  (Jallic  patronymic  of  De  Lan 
MC  In  other  words.  Rose  O'Donnell  left  Ireland,  and  twelve 
boors  after  her  arrival  in  the  Crescent  City  became  Marie  De 
Lansac" 

There  was  a  faint  exclamation — it  came  from  the  open  win 
dow.  The  speaker  and  Lad^  Cecil  both  looked  up,  and  um 
that  pretty  tableau — the  ComiaK  baronet  and  the  nursery  gover- 


I'BM    i0YS'^ff»V   OF   HRACKRS  HOLLOW. 


34? 


"You  are  ill.  Miss  ficrncastle,"  Sir  Arthur  said.  '•Thf 
ajjht  air,  the  falling  dew-  " 

He  stopped.  No,  my  Lady  Cecil !  I.oveiy,  gracious,  hi|^ 
luom  as  you  are,  there  never  came  for  you  into  those  calm, 
blue  eyes  the  look  that  glows  in  them  new  for  your  cousin'f 
silent,  sombfr  governess.  He  stopped  ami  looked  at  her.  If 
was  not  that  slie  had  grown  pale,  for  she  was  ever  that,  fixed]} 
p*lc,  but  a  sort  of  ashen  gray  shadow  had  crept  up  over  brow 
ftnd  chin,  like  a  waxen  mask.  For  one  instant  her  lips  parted, 
her  eyes  dilattrd,  then,  as  if  by  magic,  all  signs  of  chjinge  disap 
peared.  Miss  Ilcrnrastle  was  herself  again,  smiling  upon  her 
startled  companion  with  her  face  of  marble  calm. 

"A  neuralgic  twinge,  Sir  Arthi^r."  She  put  her  hand  to  her 
forehead.  "1  am  subject  to  them.  No — no,  you  are  very 
kind,  but  ther«  is  no  need  to  look  concerned.  1  am  (piite  used 
to  it,  and  it  only  means  I  have  taken  a  slight  cold." 

"And  we  stood  here  in  a  draught  of  night  air.  Shall  1  close 
the  window,  Miss  Herncastle  ?  " 

"  And  shut  out  this  sweet  evening  wind,  with  the  scent  of  the 
•ea  and  the  roses  ?  No,  Sir  Arthur  ;  1  may  not  be  very  senti- 
mental or  romantic — my  days  for  all  that  are  past — but  I  think 
a  More  practical  person  than  myself  might  brave  a  cold  in  the 
kead  and  a  twinge  of  ti^  doloureux^  for  such  a  breeze  and  such 
fHXMpect  a»  this." 

"At  least,  then,  per^yit  me  to  get  you  a  shawl." 

He  left  her  before  jhe  could  expostulate.  She  caught  her 
iX'eath  for  a  moment  -hard,  then  leaned  forward  and  listened 
to  the  low-spoken  words  of  Lady  Cecil 

"Yotir  grandfather's  heiress,"  she  was  repeating,  interestedly 
**  Ah !  yes,  I  remember,  you  told  me  that  also  once  before." 

"Did  I?  Ill  teil  you  the  sequel  now,  it  you  like,"  the 
Chasseur  d'Afrique  said.  ** There  is  many  a  slip,  you  know, 
lad  old  Frenchmen  sometimes  have  youthful  hearts.  M.  Dc 
LoDsac  suddenly  and  unexi)ectedly  got  married,  six  years  age 
— Master  Claude  is  four  years  old  now,  the  finest  little  fello?j 
from  here  to  New  Orleans,  the  heir  of  Monadarva,  and  the  I)e 
Lansac  millions.  After  her  grandfather's  marriage — I  don't 
know  how  it  was  either — she  and  madame  always  seemed  ex- 
cellent friends,  but  Marie  fell  into  low  spirits  and  ill  health, 
pined  for  the  gieen  hills  of  Ulster,  and  ♦he  feudal  splendor  of 
Castle  O'Donnell — perhaps  you  remeriiber  that  venerable  pile 
l^ady  Cecil — and  vjrote  me  to  come  and  fptch  her  home.  Hci 
|>r«ndf&tht^r  d^,<1    »ot  wish  it.     I  did  not  wish  it     I  could  (pv« 


'  y,!> 


i    ! 


Pi'- 


mi 


U 


149 


Tjm   MVSTFPy   nr    .'ff\\rfCf-:,V  ffOtJLOW 


her  no  hom«»  rqual  tn  any  way  to  that  she  wished  to  Icavr  ,  tv~ 
irfaen  a  woman  tvi'l,  she  will,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  Mane  i>« 
I^nsac,  like  Marianne  in  the  Moated  Grange,  was  *  aweax? 
aweary.'  'H'  „■  result  of  many  letters,  and  much  feminine  logii 
was,  that  I  obtained  six  n:onths-  leave  of  absence,  sailed  tlu 
briry  seas  an.l-  -Finis." 

*'  Not  Finis,  Captain  O'Donnell ;  there  ij»  still  a  supplemeal 
How  is  it  you  chanced  to  appear  before  ua  so  suddenly  here  ? ' 

"Ask  Rose,"  Captain  O'Donnell  y.nt.wcred.  "I  never  pit 
tend  to  fathom  the  motives  that  swa<  the  feminine  intellef/ 
She  wanted  to  come  to  London — w<i  came  to  London.  SIm 
war>ted  to  come  to  Castleford,  Sussex — we  came  to  Castleford, 
{Vnt*€jt.  Why^  \  don't  know,  and  1  urn  not  sure  that  1  have 
any  curiosity  on  the  subject.  ProVaWy  Rose  knows,  just  a^ 
probably  though  she  does  not  As  well  Sussex  as  anywhere 
else.  I  received  and  obeyed  orders.  And  " — Captain  O'Don- 
ncl!  paused  a  moment  and  glanced  w\>  at  the  fair,  starry  face  on 
which  the  cold  moonbeams  shone — "and  1  can  truly  say  ) 
don't  regret  the  coming." 

He  flung  away  his  cigar  and  sprang  to  hi«  feet.  Lady  Dan 
gerfield,  with  her  major,  approactieti  ar  the  moment. 

"Queenie,  are  you  awar'?  the  dew  Is  falling,  and  that  night 
air  is  shocking  for  the  complexioT-  ?  A  little  moonlight  is  very 
nice,  but  enough  is  enough,  I  judge.  Come  into  the  house ; 
we  are  going  to  have  loo  and  njusic." 

She  swept  toward  the  open  windows,  her  trained  dieas  brash- 
ing  the  dew  oflf  the  wet  grass,  and  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  two 
tui,  dusk,  statuesque  figures  there  (iiU  in  the  moonlight  And 
over  my  lady's  face  an  angry  frown  swept,  and  from  my  Ud/s 
eyes  a  flash  of  haughty  dispWsure  shot 

"  You  here  still,  Miss  Hcrn^astle?"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of 
«^er)  lice.  "  I  imagined  when  the  music  ceased  that  you  had 
gone  to  your  room.  Are  you  aware  wbedicr  Pansy  and  P^ait 
rave  gone  to  bed  i^  Be  kind  enough  to  go  ?it  once  and  ascer- 
tain." 

**  And  remain  when  you  go,"  the  frown  t  uat  concloided  the 
coaAmand  said. 

She  swept  by  them,  her  shining  lace«  wafting  a  cloud  o# 
millefleurs  before  and  behind  her,  and  Major  Fronkland,  with 
%  knowing  half-smile  on  his  lips,  stalkec^  after  Kkc  the  statue  o* 
ths  commander. 

Miss  Henacastlc  f-U  back — oft^  appeaUng,  d^Mibcaitfaig,  wist 
Wsok  she  ca«t  apswi  Ssr  ArtHr^ 


e 


'i 


•    i^^' 


rt9E    WYSTPKY  OF   BkACKFN   ffOtlOW, 


r? 


t 


*•  Good -night,"  sh(*  sighe<i,  rather  than  ss.i(l,  .ifjtl  was  j^one. 

Lady  Dangerficld  was  wise  in  her  generation,  but  she  lui 
aude  a  mistake  to-nignt.  A  sudden  dark  angf  r  had  'wept  into 
the  baronet's  eyes,  a  flush  of  intolerable  anger  mount-d  to  hii 
brow.  The  lady  he  "  delighted  to  honor  "  had  been  insulted, 
had  been  ordered  from  a*V  presence  and  out  of  his  rociu  be 
cause — he  understood  vveli  enough — because  of  him.  His  face 
Ranged,  so  darkly,  so  sternly,  so  angrily,  that  you  saw  how 
terrible  this  man,  usually  so  calm  and  impassive,  could  be  in 
ivrath. 

The  rest  of  the  party  entered  by  the  other  windows.  The 
lamps  were  lit,  and  Lady  Dangerfield's  voice  carat  shrilly  sum- 
moning the  baronet  to  loo. 

"We  are  four — Major  Frankland,  Miss  O'Donnell,  Captain 
O'Donnell,  and  myself.  We  want  you,  Sir  Arthur,  to  make  up 
our  table." 

"  Your  ladyship  will  hold  me  excused.  I  have  no  wish  foi 
<uirds  to-night." 

The  iced  stateliness  of  that  tone  no  words  of  mine  can  tell. 

Sir  Arthur  left  his  window,  looking  unutterably  grim  and 
awful,  strode  down  the  long  room,  flung  himself  into  a  chair, 
took  up  a  photograph  album  and  immersed  himself  instantly 
fathoms  deep  in  art. 

Lady  Cecil  Clive,  seated  at  the  piano  in  tfhe  dim  distance, 
heard)  saw,  and  smiled.  My  lady's  stare  of  angry  amaze,  Sir 
Arthur's  gnmly,  sulky  face  were  irresistible.  As  she  glanced 
across  the  drawing-room,  she  encountered  another  pair  of  laugh- 
ing eyes,  that  met  and  answered  her  own.  Very  handsome, 
very  bright,  very  bold,  blue  eyes  they  were,  in  the  head  of  Li 
Beau  Chasseur.  What  rapport  was  there  between  these  two  ? 
Without  speaking  a  word,  they  understood  each  other  thor 
«i]ghl/. 

Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  might  wiap  himself  up  in  his  dignity  as 
b  a  mantle,  and  sulk  to  his  heart's  content ;  Lady  Cecil  might 
%9ld  herstflf  aloof,  and  play  dreamy,  sweet  sonatas  and  Germac 
irallres.  looking  like  a  modem  Saint  Cecilia ;  the  Earl  of  Ruyg' 
land  ml^ht  still  slumber  in  that  peaceful  way  which  a  quic? 
conscience  and  a  sound  digestion  give  ;  Sir  Peter  might  erj. 
tomb  mmsclf  in  his  study  or  make  his  nightly  pilgrimage  tc 
Castleford — but  the  loo  party  were  the  merriest  party  imagin 
iible. 

Mi3sx  Herncastle  appeared  no  more,  of  coursj ;  Lady  Cect* 
pUyed  on  and  on — Sir  Arthur  gazed  and  gazed  at  his  pictures, 


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TITF   MYsrnPV  OF  BRACKRN  HOU.OW, 


md  ncTcr  approached  the  piano  Mc  hcul  goi  tiolJ  of  a  pic* 
mrc — Joan  of  Ajc  before  her  judges,  and  his  eyes  never  left  it 
The  face  was  strangely  like  that  of  Miss  Merncastle — tht 
eipression  of  the  great  grave  eyes,  the  coinjirrssiun  of  the  Mn 
*itive  mouth,  the  turn  of  the  brow,  the  shape  orf"  ihe  chin.  And 
Uiat  night  when  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  went  up  to  his  room,  hf 
':arried  Joan  of  Arc  with  hiin. 

It  wanted  just  a  quarter  of  twelve  when  Redmond  (VDon 
nell  left  Scarswood  Park,  and  took  his  way  on  foot  to  the  town. 
He  had  been  offered  a  horse,  he  had  been  offered  a  bed,  anc< 
had  declined  both.     To  walk  on  such  a  night  was  a  luxury 
He  lit  a  Manilla,  and  went  over  the  moonlit  road  with  his  long 
cavalryman's   stride.     It  was  a  perfect  night,  the  sky  small 
blue,  the  stars  golden  *ind  glorious,  the  moon  sailing  up  serene 
in  their  shiny  midst.     Long  shadows  of  tall  trees  lay  black 
across  the  road,  the  hedge-rows  in  full  blossom  made  the  nighl 
air  odorous,  and,  far  or  near,  no  living  thing  was  to  be  seen. 

Far  or  near!  Redmond  O'Donncll  pulled  up  suddenly  in 
his  swinging  pace,  and  looked  away  afield.  His  sight  was  of 
eagle  keenness.  What  dark  moving  figure  was  that  yonder, 
crossing  ?,  stile,  and  vanishing  amid  the  tall  gorse  ?  It  was  a 
woman — more,  it  was  familiar  even  at  that  distance. 

In  a  nnoment  his  resolution  was  taken.  What  woman  was 
this  out  for  a  midnight  ramble  ?  She  must  have  come  straight 
from  Scarswood,  there  was  no  other  habitation  near.  Captain 
CDonnell  set  his  lips,  flung  away  his  cigar  among  the  fern  and 
grasses,  vaulted  like  a  boy  over  the  hedge,  and  in  a  moment 
was  in  full  pursuit. 

The  figure  that  had  vanished  in  the  shadows  of  the  waving 
gorse,  reappeared  in  the  broad  moonlit  field.  A  woman — no 
doubt  about  that  now — a  tall  woman,  walking  swiftly,  lightly, 
gracefully,  as  only  young  women  ever  walk.  That  statelj^ 
stature,  that  poise  of  the  head  and  shoulders,  surely  all  were 
Suniliar.  And  a  quarter  past  twelve,  alone  and  in  haste. 
A^t  mystery  was  here  ? 

**Some  instinct  told  me  six  hours  ago,  when  I  recognizee! 
her  first,  that  something  was  wrong ;  I  am  convinced  of  it  now. 
Something  is  wrong.  What  brings  her  here  ? — of  all  people  ia 
rhe  world,  and  in  the  character  oi  a  nursery  governess.  And 
^here  is  she  going  at  this  unearthly  hour  of  night  ?  " 

Still  she  went  on — still  the  unseen  pursuer  followed  on  her 
Irack.     She  never  looked  back  ;  straight,  swift,  as  one  who  has 
ftxad  end  in  view,  ihe  went  o»  ;  and  still  steady  and  re 


MYSTERY  OF  BHACKKN  fTOLLOW, 


35» 


le  itleis,  determined  and  btcin,  Kedii:urKl  O'Donnell  followed 
in  her  track. 

Her  destinii.tion  was  Bracken  Hollow.  Ft  came  upon  him, 
geen  for  the  first  time,  black  and  grim,  buried  among  its  gloomy 
trees — lonely  and  deserted.  No  lights  gleam«d  anywhere 
About  it ;  its  shutters  were  all  closed — unutterably  eerie  and 
desolate  in  the  white  shimuier  of  the  moon.  But  the  noctur 
nsd  visitor  opened  the  grim  wooden  gate  with  a  key  she  carried, 
relocked  it,  and  for  the  first  time  paused  to  look  back.  She 
law  no  one — the  trees,  and  the  shades,  and  the  distance  hid 
the  pursuer ;  only  the  silver  shine  of  the  stars  and  moon,  the 
boundless  blue  of  sky,  the  spreading  grcci  of  earth,  and  the 
soft  night  wind  whispering  over  all.  She  turned  from  the  gate, 
hurried  up  the  grass-grown  path,  and  vanished  in  tiie  inky 
^'loom  of  the  porch. 

Redmond  O'Donnell  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  treea, 
•kod  approached  the  gruesome  dwelling.  He  paused  at  the 
wooden  gate,  which  barred  his  farther  advance,  and  gazed  up 
at  the  black  forbidding  front.  In  his  rambles  over  the  neigh- 
borhood he  had  never  come  upon  this  out-of-the-way  place — it 
lay  in  a  spot  so  remote,  so  unfreciuented,  that  few  ever  did 
come  upon  it  by  chance.  And  those  who  knew  it  gave  it  a 
wide  berth,  for  it  bore  the  ghastly  reputation  of  a  haunted 
house. 

He  stood,  his  folded  arms  resting  on  the  gate,  tall  sycamores 
and  firs  burying  him  in  their  deepest  gloom,  and  watched  and 
waited  for — he  hardly  knew  what  Certainly  not  for  what  he 
heard — a  long,  wailing  cry  that  came  suddenly  and  hideously 
from  the  upper  part  of  the  house. 

He  started  up.  So  blood-curdling,  so  unexpected  was  u, 
tliat  for  one  moment  his  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  It  was 
billowed  by  another,  wild,  agonized — then  dead  silence  fell 

Fhysically  and  morally  Redmond  O'Donnell  was  brave  to 
^e  core,  and  had  given  many  and  strong  proofs  of  his  bravery  j 
but  a  chill,  more  like  fear  than  anything  he  had  ever  exi:)crif. 
enced,  fell  upon  him  now.  What  hideous  thing  was  this  ?  Wao 
murder  being  done  in  this  spectral  house  ?  It  looked  a  fit 
place  for  a  murder — all  darkness,  all  silence,  all  desolation. 
The  unearthly  cry  was  the  same  that  once  before  had  terrified 
I^ady  Cecil,  but  of  that  circumstance  he  knew  nothing.  What 
deed  of  eril  was  going  on  within  these  dark  walls  ?  Should  he 
force  an  entrance  and  see  ?  Would  that  dreadful  cry  be  re- 
peated  ?     He  paused  and  listened — five,  ten,  fifteen  minatci. 


ISs 


rWB   MYSTf.h'V    OF   fl'^^i'Kf^.N   HOLLO\ 


i  \ 


No,  dead  silence  reigned.  Oiil>  r.\c  liutter  of  the  leai  es,  ani 
die  chirp  of  some  bird  in  its  nest,  the  soft  rustle  of  the  treei, 
the  faint  soughing  of  the  innd— the  "voices"  of  the  night — 
oothing  more. 

What  ought  he  do  ?  While  he  still  stood  there  irresolute, 
tost  in  wonder  and  a  sort  of  awe,  the  porch  door  opened,  aiWl 
the  mysterious  lady  he  had  followed  appeared.  A  second  fif^ 
ire,  the  bent  figure  of  a  very  old  woman,  came  after.  TH* 
arst  was  speaking. 

"  No,  no,  Hannah  ;  you  shall  not  come.  Afraid  I  What 
nonsense  !  The  time  for  me  to  fear  anything  earthly  is  past 
Nothing  living  or  dead  will  harm  me.  I  will  reach  Scaiswood 
In  less  than  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  get  in  as  1  got  out,  in 
ipite  of  all  Sir  i'eter^s  chains  and  locks,  and  to-mprrow  be  once 
more  my  lady's  staid  preceptress  of  youth.  Hannah,  Hannah, 
what  a  life  it  is  1  Go  back ;  try  to  keep  everything  quiet ; 
don't  let  these  ghastly  shrieks  be  repeated  if  you  can  help  it 
How  fortunate  Bracken  Hollow  is  thought  to  be  haunted,  and 
no  one  ever  comes  here  by  night  or  day  ! " 

"We  had  a  narrow  escape  nor  long  ago,  for  all  that.  It  was 
one  of  the  bad  days,  and  the  lady  and  gentleman  heard.  I  put 
them  off,  but  it  may  happen  again,  and  it  will.  It  can't  go  on 
forever." 

"Nothing  goes  on  forever ;  I  don't  want  it  to  go  on  forever. 
My  time  is  drawing  near  ;  little  by  little  the  I'ght  is  breaking, 
and  my  day  is  coming.  Until  it  does,  keep  quiet ;  use  the 
drug  tf  there's  too  much  noise.  I  will  return  as  speedily  aj 
possible.     Now,  good-night." 

She  ran  down  the  steps,  walked  with  her  firm,  resolute,  fea 
less  tread^  down  the  path,  and,  as  before,  lingered  a  second  o 
two  at  the  gate. 

The  old  woman  had  gone  back  to  the  house,  and  the  tal 
dark  figure  under  the  firs  she  did  not  see.  She  drew  ou!  bf 
watch  and  looked  at  it  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

"  Half-past  one  I "  she  murmured.  "  1  had  not  thought  it  a 
late  It  will  be  a  quarter  past  two,  then,  before  I  reach  Scaif 
wood." 

"And  a  very  late  honr  for  Miss  Hemcastle  to  be  oq\ 
alone  I" 

Obeying  an  impulse  he  could  not  resist,  the  chasse%r> 
emerged  from  the  tree-shadows  and  stood  before  her. 

"  With  her  permission  I  will  see  her  safely  back." 

And  thca,  with  the  bright  light  of  the  moon  upoo  hii  hx/^ 


f 


1 


1 


HcfttCMtlc. 


UNOt.i^    IHt    KlNG'^i    OAK.  jjj 

O'Doiincii    iciiiuvcd   hii  hAi   juiU   bowed  to  MUm 


CHAri'ER   XIV. 


UNDER    THR    KINO's    OAK 


k€ 


oa\ 


IHE  did  not  scream,  she  did  r.ii  even  start,  rbere 
must  have  becii  brave  blood  id  ihc  govcrnesg  veins. 
She  stood  there  stock  still,  and  facrd  him  ;  but  in  the 
moonlight  that  gray  [jailor  »  iiue  over  the  resolute 
face,  and  the  great  gray  eyes  dilated  with  something  the  lock 
of  a  hunted  stag.  So  for  an  instant  they  stood  silent,  far**  to 
face,  he  with  the  brilliant,  slanting  moonbeams  full  on  his 
dark,  handsome,  uncovered  head,  and  his  piercmg,  blue  eyes 
pitilessly  &xed  on  her  stony  face.  Then  the  spell  broke  ;  she 
drew  one  long  breath,  the  light  came  back  to  her  eyes,  the 
natural  hue  to  her  face,  and  she  nerved  herself  to  Jiieet  and 
dare  the  worst.  She  was  one  of  those  exceptional  women  who 
possess  courage,  that  rises  to  battle  back  in  the  hour  of  darig^^r. 
She  opened  the  gate  and  spoke. 

"Captain  Redmond  O'Donnell,"  she  said  slowly,  "  it  \% y^u. 
I  breathe  again.  For  one  moment  I  absolutely  took  you  for 
A  ghost.      My  nerve*;  arc  good,  but  you  gave  them  a  shp<^k." 

"Yes,"  Captain  O'Donnell  dryly  answered.  "1  think  yow 
nerves  are  good,  Miss  Herncastle.  There  are  not  many  youn|( 
ladies —not  many  strong-minded  governesses  even — who  woul' 
fancy  the  long,  lonely  walk  between  Scarswood  and  this  pla«<e, 
between  the  ghostly  hours  of  twelve  and  two.  You  are  going 
^ck  ?  As  I  said  before,  with  your  permission,  I  will  accom- 
^ny  yeu.  Under  existing  circumstances  it  becomes  my  duty 
to  sec  you  safely  home." 

She  smiled,  caine  otiL,  relocked  the  gate^  put  the  key  in  hex 
pocket,  drew  the  black  mantle  she  wore  closely  about  her  and 
walked  on. 

"  YouT  duty  ?  "  she  repeated,  still  with  that  r.mile,  "  Dut^r 
5s  t  won^  vrAki  a  wide  signification  to  s<nr»e  peopk.  Koi 
bistaace,  iio  j.)ubt  you  considered  it  your  du?)  lo  lollc  #  ru« 
hjere  lo-rJ^t — to  dojj  my  <^\^^^<^.  like  the  hirt'Iinij  As'.saBsiiJ  of  »t 


If'l 


•  VA 


354 


UNDER    THE  KING'S  OAM. 


■  >.  ■ 


i  '«. 


in''i 


')         ! 


11    'i 


Italian  norel — to  (it  is  not  a  pleasant  word,  bat  the  wwi  I 

went)  play  the  spy." 

He  was  walking  by  her  side.  Me  w;?.s  lowering  the  paitori 
iiara  of  a  field  as  she  spoke,  to  let  her  through. 

"  Spy  ? "  he  sai  1  "  Well,  yes,  I  confess  it  looks  like  it. 
Still  in  justice  to  myself  and  my  motives,  let  me  say  soni^ething 
iBore  than  simple  curiosity  has  been  at  work  to-night.  In  the 
isual  course  of  events,  though  it  might  surprise  me  to  see 
Lady  Dangerfield's  governess  taking  a  moonlight  ramble  after 
taiidnight,  it  certainly  would  not  induce  me  to  follow  her,  and 
play  me  spy,  as  you  term  it,  upon  her  actions.  But  another 
motive  than  curiosity  prompted  me  to-night — to  dog  your  foot- 
•teps,  to  wait  for  your  reappearance,  and  to  accumpany  yc«i 
home." 

'*  Ah,  something  more  I  May  I  ask  what  it  is  that  inducei 
itJaptain  ODonnell  to  take  so  profound  an  interest  in  one  so 
hi  boaeath  him  as  Lady  Dangei-field's  governess  ?" 

The  grave  defiance  of  her  tone  and  manner,  the  daring 
mockery  of  her  glance,  told  him  she  was  prepared  to  deny 
everything — to  fight  every  inch  of  the  ground. 

"Well,  Miss  Herncastle,"  he  said,  "my  first  impression 
when  I  recognized  you — for  your  carriage,  your  walk,  your 
bearing,  are  not  to  be  mistaken  anywhere — " 

Miss  Hemcastie  iwwed  sarcastically,  as  to  a  compliment. 

"  My  yfrx/ impress  ion,  I  say,  was  that  you  were  walking  in 
your  sleep.  I  knew  a  sonmambulist  in  Algeria  who  would 
walk  miles  ever}'  night,  if  not  locked  up.  But  a  little  thought, 
and  a  few  minutea*  cautious  pursuit  convinced  me  that  you  were 
not  sleep-walking,  but  exceedingly  \\Hide  awake  indeed." 

iNgain  Miss  Hemcastie  bowed — again  with  that  derisive,  de« 
Aant  smile  on  her  face.  Her  whole  look,  manner,  and  tone 
vere  entirely  unlike  Miss  Hemcastie,  who  seemed  more  like 
in  animated  statue  than  a  living  woman  in  my  lady's  spacious 
'ooms. 

"And  bein^'  convinced  of  that,  Captain  CDonnell's  first 
topulsii  — the  impulse  of  all  brave  men  and  gallant  gentlemen, 
was — '  Miss  Hemcastie  is  out  for  a  walk  by  herself,  either  on 
private  business,  or  because  of  the  beauty  of  the  night,  or  be- 
cause she  cannot  sleep.  She  certainly  doesn't  want  me,  and  ia 
quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  herself.  I  will  turn  back  a! 
once  and  think  no  more  about  it.'  That  was,  I  know,  the  firtt 
thought  of  Captain  O'Donnell,  the  bravest  cliasseur  in  all  th* 
anny  of  Africa     May  T  ask  why  he  did  not  act  upon  it  V* 


i 


% 


VHDER    THM.  KING'S   OAK, 


%ss 


^'Simply  for  this  reason — that  Captain  O'DonnclIieciMiiixeil 
Mifls  Keracastie  at  six  o'clock  last  evening,  as  she  stood  opos 
the  lawn  reading  the  '  Battle  of  Fontenoy.' " 

"  indeed  I "  Af  iss  Herncastle  responded,  with  supreme  in- 
difference ;  "  recognized  me,  did  /ou  ?  I  am  rather  surprtiej 
It  that.  You  encountered  me  in  the  streets  of  London  prob 
ibly  before  I  came  here  ?  " 

**  No,  madainev  I  encoimtered  you  in  the  streets  of  a  tx^ 
different  city.  I  have  an  excellent  memory  for  faces,  audi 
though  1  may  be  puzzled  to  place  them  for  a  little,  I  generallj 
come  out  right  in  the  end." 

"  I  congratulate  Captain  ODonnell  on  his  excellent  mem- 
ory. And  my  face  puzzled  you  at  first,  did  it  ?  and  you  have 
come  out  all  right  in  the  end  ?  " 

"  Carry  your  memory  back  to  the  night  of  the  theatricals  at 
kscarswood,  the  night  of  my  first  appearing  there.  I  saw  you 
play  Charlotte  Corday,  and  in  common  with  all  present,  your 
manner  of  enacting  it  electrified  me.  More,  1  kntw  immedi- 
ately that  I  had  seen  you  before,  and  in  somewhat  similar  cir- 
cumstances. I  asked  who  you  were,  and  was  told  Lady  Dan- 
gerfield's  nursery  governess.  That  nonplussed  me — my  recol- 
lections of  you  were  altogether  unreconcilable  with  the  charac- 
ter of  children's  preceptress,  Hien  came  last  evening,  and 
your  very  fine  rendering  of  the  Irish  poem.  And  again  I  was 
puzzled.  Your  face  was  perfectly  familiar — your  attitude,  your 
voice,  ^  "  action — but  whtre  had  I  seen  you  ?  Do  you  re- 
member Lady  Cecil's  exclamation? — 'Miss  Herncastle,  you 
lire  a  bom  actress  ! '  Like  mist  before  the  sun,  the  haze  of  my 
mmd  was  swept  away,  and  I  knew  you.  I  repeat  it,  Misi 
Herncastle — /  knew  ytm." 

"  You  knew  me  ?  "  Miss  Herncastle  repeated,  but  her  eyes 
K^re  gleaming  strangely  now ;  "  well,  sir,  you  know  nothia^ 
to  my  discredit,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Nothing  to  your  discreviit,  if  you  have  told  Lady  Danger 
field   the   truth.     But  baronets'   wives  rarely  look    for  thci 

childien's  instructresses  in  the  person  of a  New  Ywk  ac- 

tress." 

" Captain  O'Donnell I" 
'    "  Miss  Herncastle  ! " 

And  then  there  was  a  pause,  and  for  an  instant  hew  horr!b?7 
thick  and  fast  Miss  Hrrncastle'a  heart  beat  only  Miss  Hem 
-castle  ever  knew. 

"  !  ^.q?Vt  tindrrst-sric'  vmi  "  ••b'*  *:'.icl  .  l^ut  in  ?pite  cf  all  h?« 


X  r 


<]} 


SS6 


U^OAJr    r»M    iCWG'S   OAK. 


freait  self-coinniAru'  her  vo«<'.<  x>uijdcd  husky.  "A  New  YotI 
actress.  I  never  was  in  New  York  in  my  life  I  am  an  Klsf. 
liihwomanf  bom  ar.d  bred" 

IJ  be  would  only  take  his  eyes  off  her  face,  she  thougt.t  hiK 
defiant  spirit  wor'.d  rise  again.  Hut  those  powerfiil  bl»ie  eywt 
keen  as  a  knife,  bright  as  steel,  seemed  to  pierce  her  very  ^iuoj. 
ttd  read  all  its  falsehood  there. 

"  I  regret  Miss  Herncastle  takes  the  trouble  to  make  unnec 
tsi&ry  statements,"  he  said  coldly.     "An  Englishwoman  bonr; 
and  bred.     I  believe  thai.     But  as  surely  as  we  both  stand 
here,  I  saw  you  six  months  ago  on  a  New  York  stage — one  ol 
the  most  popular  actresses  of  that  city." 

She  was  silent — her  lips  set  hard — that  hunteo  look  in  hei 
large  eyes. 

"  The  play  was  *  Hamlet,' "  pursued  the  pitiless  voice  of  the 
chasseur ;  "  and  the  great  trans-Atlantic  actor,  Edwin  Booth, 
played  the  doleful  Prince  of  Denmark.  I  had  never  seen 
*  Hamlot,'  and  I  went  the  first  night  of  my  arrival  in  New  York. 
The  Ophelia  of  the  play  was  a  tall,  black-browed,  majestic 
woman,  who  acted  superbly,  and  who  looked  as  if  she  could 
take  care  of  herself;  but  then  adl  American  women  have  that 
look.  At  least  she  was  very  far  from  one's  idea  of  poor  love- 
tick,  song-singing,  weak-mind^i  Ophelia ;  and  I  really  think 
she  took  the  character  better  tbatn  any  actress  I  ever  saw  ;  but 
then  Vf\y  experience  has  beeii  limited.  Miss  Herncastle,  I 
don't  remember  the  name  of  that  actress  on  the  bills,  bui  I 
certainly  have  the  honor  of  walking  by  her  side  to-night.  No," 
— he  lifted  his  hand  hastily,  "  I  beg  you  will  not  trouble  you/ 
•elf  to  deny  this.  WhaX  good  will  it  do  ?  You  can't  convince 
me  though  you  denied  it  until  daylight.  I  know  1  speak  tl^i^ 
truth." 

She  turned  to  him  with  sudden  impulse — sudden  passion  in 
Lr?y  face.  Ah  I  that  is  where  women  fail — where  men  have  the 
advantage  of  us.  The  strongest-minded  of  us  will  let  ourseWe* 
be  swayed  by  impulse,  and  all  the  vows  ana  resolves  of  oni 
life  swept  away  in  the  passion  of  a  moment  She  turned  to 
him  with  a  swift,  impassioned  gesture  of  both  hands,  theatrical 
perhaps,  but  real. 

"  Why  should  I  lie  to  you  !  You  arc  a  man  of  honor,  a 
soldier,  and  a  gentleman — you  will  not  betray  me.  I  will  tcU 
die  truth,  Captain  O'Donnell.  I  am  the  New  York  actrcM — 
K  4M  the  Ophelia  you  beheld  six  months  ago." 

**  J  kjftew  it,"   be  answered  with   comjxw^uc     '*  I   aaw    f»*8 


IT  YotI 

m  KtBf  • 

ic  eycf, 

;  unnec 
an  boiT: 
h  stand 
—one  6t 

k  in  hex 

:e  of  the 
ti  Booth, 
rer   seen 
iw  York, 
majestic 
he  could 
lave  that 
oor  love- 
lly  think 
;aw  ;  biit 
icastle,  I 
lis,  but  I 
;ht.   No," 
ble  your 
convince 
peak  \}i& 

assion  ir 
have  the 
ourseWe* 
es  of  cm 
turned  to 
theatrkal 

honor,  a 
I  will  teU 
actreia— 

aaw    Vf^ 


i 


VNrRf     THE  KINCS  OAX. 


S$7 


inany  nights  in  succession  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  be  mis 
taken.  And  as  clever  and  popular  acti esses  do  not  ai  a  rule 
quit  the  stage,  and  the  brilliant,  well  paid,  well-dressed,  highU 
strung  existence  of  a  popular  leading  lady,  and  merge  &eu 
bright  individuality  into  that  of  a  poorly  paid,  overtasked  dradgf 
jf  a  nursery  governess,  you  will  pardon  me,  1  think,  for  allow 
ing  my  suspicions  to  rise,  for  forif>wing  yoiir  footsteps  to-night, 
i  said  to  myself,  this  actress,  whom  a  crowded  Broadway  house 
Applauded  to  the  echo,  night  after  night,  has  sornv  motive — a 
sinister  one,  in  all  likelihood — in  <}uitting  her  profession  and 
coming  to  this  house  in  the  rble  of  governess.  For,  of  course, 
X  governess  she  will  not  long  remain.  Lady  Dangerfield  is  in 
utter  ignorance  of  her  antecedents — believes  whatever  story 
Miss  Herncastle  chooses  to  tell  her — takes  her  recommenda- 
tions, forged  beyond  doubt,  for  authentic  documents,  and  is 
being  duped  every  day.  I  speak  plainly,  you  see,  Miss  Hem- 
castle." 

"You  do,  indeed,"  Miss  Henicastie  answered  bitterly 
"  You  state  your  case  with  all  the  pitiless  grimness  and  truth  ok 
the  stem  old  judge  on  the  bench,  summing  up  the  facts  that  are 
to  condemn  for  life  the  miserable  culprit  in  the  dock.  Afid 
after  all,"  she  flung  up  her  hand,  ner  eyes  flashing,  '•  wftat  busi- 
ness is  it  of  yours  ?  Are  you  my  lady's  keeper  ?  Has  youi 
own  fate  been  ordered  so  smoothly  that  you  should  hunt  down 
to  ruin  a  poor  wretch  with  whom  life  has  gone  hard  ?  " 

Something  in  her  tone  moved  him — something  in  that  pas 
sionate,  savage,  hunted  look  of  her  eyes  touched  him,  he  hardl]^ 
knew  why. 

"  No,  (Jod  knows,"  he  said  sadly,  "  my  own  life  has  been  nc 
pathway  of  roses.  I  am  the  last  man  (^n  earth  to  set  up  iii 
judgment  upon  my  struggling  fellow  mortal,  and  accuse  him. 
I  have  no  wish  to  hunt  you  down,  as  you  call  it.  This  nighfy 
work,  this  night's  discover^',  and  your  avowal,  shall  be  as  though 
they  had  never  been.  Whether  1  do  right  or  wrong  in  con- 
ceding the  truth  is  much  too  subtle  a  (iuetiiton  for  lue — 1  only 
know  1  will  conceal  it." 

She  held  out  her  hand  suddenly,  with  a  secorid  swift  impulse 
**  For  that  much  at  least  1  thank  you  Why  I  have  left  the 
stage,  why  I  have  come  here,  you  have  answered  to  you* 
own  satisfaction.  Some  sinister  motive  must  be  at  the  bottom 
of  course.  And  yet,  Captain  O'Donnell — and  yet — can  yo 
imagine  no  better,  no  higher,  no  mo'-c  worthy  motived  'I'V.. 
onr    mav  be   brilliant,   Hi-    r''.r-    ^>*\}  ;    on?^    "*?r'^  "ivir!,   v:^l- 


I  •:  i 


li'4 


V    ' 


■*> 


Ki' 


if'*-^^ 


■'■(': 


l?i«l 


i!;«W 


mil 


35S 


(JNDEk    THE   K1NG\'S    OAK 


dmsed,  well-applauded  ;  the  other  a  pittance — '^uAkcr  gaib^ 
iad  the  obedience  of  a  servant ;  but  yet  the  dull  life  is  the  laft 
Mbe — the  other  full  of  untold  dangers  and  temptation." 

Captain  O'Donnell  smiled. 

"  I  grant  it.  Full  of  untold  dangers  and  temptation  to  fooi 
ish  jjirls  and  frivolous  matn^ns — not  to  such  women  as  you.  \\ 
my  situation  in  life  you  are  quite  capable  of  taking  excellent 
:areof  yourself,  Miss  Hemcastle.  That  plea  has  not  even  the 
advantage  of  being  commonly  plausible.  What  your  motive 
may  be,  1  don't  know — it  is  your  own  business  and  in  no  way 
concerns  me.  Unless,"  he  paused — "  unless.  Miss  Hemcas 
de — "  he  said,  slowly. 

"Yes,  Captain  O'Donnell— unless — " 

**  Unless  I  find  trouble  of  any  kind  coininj^  of  it  You  a»c 
doing  mischief  already — do  you  know  it  ?  You  have  frighteneti 
two  or  three  people  into  the  belief  that  you  are  a  ghost." 

Miss  Hemcastle  laughed — not  a  '^iC^v  natural  sounding  laugh. 

"Poor  little  Sir  Peter!  I?  it  my  fss^tilt,  Captain  O'Donnell, 
that  I  resemble  some  woman  he  ha?  fcnown,  dead  and  in  hei 
grave  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not ;  1  have  not  quite  made  up  my  mind  how  that 
iS  yet  Second  cb'ise — "  he  gave  her  a  piercing  look  ;  "  are 
you  aware  that  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  is  engaged — has  been 
engaged  for  years — to  T.ady  Cecil  Clive  ?" 

"  Ah,"  Miss  Hemcastle  said,  scornfull)',  *'  naiv  we  tread  on 
delicate  ground.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  is  engaged  to  Lady 
Cecil  Clive,  and  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  has  shown  the  despised 
nursery  governess  the  simple  courtesy  oi  a  gentleman  to  a  gen- 
tlewoman. For,  in  spite  of  the  .N^ew  York  acting  and  English 
teaching,  1  am  that,  sir  He  has  kindly  talked  a  little  to  Miso 
CIcmcastle,  and  the  ea/l's  daughter  deigns  l.)  be  jealous,  witu 
»12  her  beauty,  and  birth,  and  breechng.  of  poor,  lowly,  pl?»]n  me 
And  you.  Captain  O'Donnell — you  of  all  men — tell  me  of  it." 

"  And  why  not  1,  Miss  Hemcastle  ?  " 

"  Because,"  she  burst  out,  fiercely,  passionately,  "  Lady  Cecij 
Clive  may  be  engaged  to  fifV.y  wealthy  baronets,  but — ihi  loitk 
p^m  /  Ah  !  you  feel  that !  "  She  laughed  in  a  wild,  reckle^t 
sort  of  way,  "She  loves  you,  the  soldier  of  fortune,  the  frv^e 
companion,  and  will  give  Sir  Arthur  her  hand  at  the  altar,  while 
her  heart  is  in  your  keeping  !  And  this  is  the  dainty,  *he  spot 
lea*,  the  proud  1  <ady  Cecil.  Wiiat  you  are  or  have  been  to  hei 
'a  the  past,  you  know  best ;  but — I  wonder  if  Sir  Arthur  dai.?  / 
""^^eis  a  faithful  friend  and  ga.]\sia'  '/rnilt-nxnn      I>,)n't  vou  ih'\r\ 


ne  Mfe 


:q  fool 
u.  Is 
ccllcp/, 
^en  the 
motive 
no  wa) 
emcas 


{on  auc 

ghtenetl 
>» 

2,  laugh. 
)onnell, 
d  in  hei 

low  that 

;  "  are 

as  been 

read  on 
.0  Lady 
despised 
o  a  gen- 
English 
to  Miso 
pur,,  witl5 
l?«in  me 
bofit" 

dy  Cec« 

reckless 
the  frv^e 
:ar,  ^\i\\e 
•^he  sput 
^n  to  hei 
ar  doi;?  / 
C'U  thir>^ 


UNDER   THE  JCINCS  OAX. 


359 


f'^tain  ODonnell,  my  judge,  my  censor,  that  from  your  handi 
flMd  hers  he  deserves  better  tK-i,n  that  ?  " 

She  had  stnick  home.  'I'he  tide  of  battle  had  turned — vie- 
tM"y  sat  perched  on  her  banner  now.  His  face  flushed  deep 
rtd,  under  the  golden  bronze  of  an  Afric  sun,  then  grew  very 
white.  Miss  Herncastle,  womanlike,  pursued  her  advantage 
sttercilessly. 

"  You  see  the  mote  in  yom  brother's  eye,  but  how  about  the 
Wain  in  your  o«*'n  ?  Most  men  like  to  think  the  heart  of  the 
Ionian  they  marry  h^s  held  no  former  lodger.  They  like  to 
think  so,  and  if  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  they  are  duped,  if  they 
do  not  know  it,  what  does  it  matter  ?  My  Lady  Cecil  is  pur« 
awd  spotless  as  mountain  snow,  is  she  not  ?  And  she  sells  her- 
self—it  is  my  turn  to  use  i)lain  words  now,  sir — sells  herself  loi 
Sir  Arthur's  thirty  thousand  a  year.  She  is  the  soul  of  truth 
and  a  living  lie  to  him  every  day  of  her  life.  She  will  become 
his  wife,  and  her  heart  will  go  after  you  out  to  Algiers.  Yours 
she  is — and  will  be — and  Sir  Arthur  trusts  her  and  you.  Bah  ! 
Captain  O'Donnell,  is  there  one  true  woman  or  man  in  all  the 
world  wide?  I  don't  say  Sir  Arthur  has  any  right  to  complain 
->— he  is  only  treated  as  the  larger  half  of  his  sex  are  treated  ; 
©ut  don't  you  call  him  to  order  if  he  chances  to  speak  a  fen 
Kindly  words  to  me.  We  are  at  the  park  ;  may  I  go  in  ?  I  ana 
tired  to  death,  walking  and  talking.  Has  more  got  to  be  said, 
or  shall  we  cry  quits,  and  say  good-night  ?  " 

"  How  will  you  get  in  ?  '*  he  asked.  '*  The  doors  and  windowF 
§cem  bolted  for  the  night." 

"  Doubly  bolted,  doubly  barred,"  Miss  Herncastle  replied 
with  a  contemptuous  laugh,  "  to  keep  out  burglars  and  ghosts, 
the  two  Imgbears  of  Sir  Peter's  life.  Nevertheless  I  will  get  in 
Good-night,  Captain  O'Donnell."  She  held  out  her  hand.  "  I 
wrould  rather  you  had  not  followed  me,  but  you  thought  you 
»^ere  doing  your  duty,  and  I  do  not  blame  you.  Shall  we  cry 
•^nits,  or  shall  it  be  war  to  the  knife  ?" 

He  touched  the  ungloved  hand  she  extended  and  dropped  it 
coldly. 

"  It  shall  be  whatever  Miss  Herncastle  pleases.  Only  I  should 
idvise  her  to  discontinue  those  nocturnal  rambles.     She  may 
get  followed  again,  and  by  some  one  less  discreet  even  than 
aayself,  and  the  very  strange  cries  that  issue  from  that  mysteri 
#us  duelling  be  found  out." 

She  caught  ber  breath;  she  had  ^uitc  forgotten  Bra- V.  i, 
Hollow. 


1 


m 


W-:i 


(;!■ 


im 


,.6 


!!     ' 


!)      (I 


, ;'        I 


j6o 


UNDER    THE   KiN\^S   J  AX. 


"You  heard—" 

"  I  heard  three  very  unearthly  cries,  Miss  Hemcaide.  I 
ihall  inquire  tomorrow  who  lives  in  that  house. 

"  Do.  You  will  hear  it  is  an  old  woman,  a  very  old,  hanA- 
less  woman,  but  a  little,  just  a  little,  in  her  dotage.  Theti 
moonlight  nights  affect  her,  and  when  her  rheumatism  twinget 
come  on  she  cries  out  as  you  have  heard  her." 

He  smiled  as  he  Ustened. 

"  You  don't  believe  nie  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  think  I  att 
!£lling  a  second  He." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Hemcastle,"  the  chasseur  replied,  ''we  never 
apply  that  forcible  and  impolite  word  to  a  lady.  And  now,  as 
/on  seem  tired,  and  lest  poachers  and  gamekeepers  should  sec 
as,  1  think  we  had  better  part.  You  are  quite  sure  you  cai; 
get  in  ? " 

"Quite  sure.     Good-night,  Captain  O'Donnell." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  turned  at  once.  Miss  Hemcastle  itood 
where  he  had  left  her,  following  the  tall,  gallant  figure  that 
crossed  the  moonlit  field  so  swiftly,  with  a  strange  expression  in 
her  eyes  and  on  her  lips.  Not  anger,  certainly  not  haticd,  what- 
ever it  might  be.  She  stood  there  until  he  was  out  of  sight, 
until  the  last  sound  of  rapid  footsteps  on  the  distant  highroad 
died  away.  Then  she  turned,  entered  the  great  elm  avenue, 
and  disappeared. 

It  was  the  next  night  after  this  that  something  very  itrangc 
and  very  startling  occurred  \.o  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield. 

Beside  his  sunset  ])ilgrimage  to  that  remote  Castleford  church 
yard,  the  Scarswood  baronc'  made  other  pilgrimages  to  Castle 
ford,  by  no  means  so  harml-ss.     In  an  out-of-the-way  street  n/i 
the  town  there  stood  a  tall,  white  house,  set  in  a  garden  off  the 
highway,  and  looking  the  very  picture  of  peace  and  prosperity 
A   gentleman  named  Dubourg,  of  foreign  extraction,  and  hi? 
T^ife,  resided  there.     M.  Dubourg  was  a  most  agreeable  gentle 
man,   Madame   Dubourg  the  most  charming,  most  vivacious 
andj  wheii  artistically  made  up  for  the  evening,  the  prettiest  oi 
little  women.     Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  the   charm   of  those 
agreeable  people's  society  that  so  many  officers  of  the  Castle- 
fiord   barracks,  and   so  many  of  the  dashing  young   country 
iqui*'ft8,  frequented  it.     Or,  perhaps — but  this  was  a  secret — 
perhaps  it  was  owing  to  the  unlimited  loo  and  lansquenet,  the 
hcarfk  and  chicken-hazard  you  ii;iv^.Ht  indulge  in  between  night- 
's\\  and  sunrise.     For  lights  burned  behind  those  clwoed  Ycnt 


lUe    1 

,  hanA- 

Thew 

twinget 


nklaisr 

re  never 
now,  as 
3uld  sec 
you  can 


tleftood 
jure  that 
ission  in 
;d,  what- 
of  sight, 
lighroad 
avenue, 


I  ftrangc 

1  church 
o  Castle 
street  o^ 
tn  off  the 
:osperity 
and  hit 
le  gentle 
Mvacious 
rattiest  oS 
of  those 
le  Castle^ 
country 
secret — 
lenet,  tht 
en  night- 

m4   YCBtr 


Ll^l^FK    THE    KISCPS    JAK. 


j<5i 


lUhs  thifi  «hort  summer  and  the  lot>^  winter  nights  throagh  aD<! 
men  sat  silent  and  with  pale  faces  until  the  rosy  lances  of  sim- 
rise  pierced  the  blinds,  and  the  fall  of  the  cards  and  the  rattle 
of  dice  were  the  only  sound  to  stir  fiio  silence.  Immense  sumi 
were  staked,  little  fortunes  were  lost  and  won,  and  men  left 
h.iggard  and  ghastly  in  the  gray  dawn,  with  the  cold  dew  stand- 
ing on  their  faces,  or  rode  home  tUish-d,  excited,  richer  by 
iliousfiids  of  pounds.  The  CastJetoid  i)olice  ke[)t  their  eye  on 
this  peaceful  suburban  retreat  and  the  deli;j;htful  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Dubourg,  but  as  yet  no  raid  had  been  made. 

A  passion  for  gambling  had  ever  been  latent  in  the  Danger- 
field  blood.  In  the  days  of  his  poverty  it  had  developed  itsell 
in  his  continual  buying  of  lottery  tickets  ;  in  the  days  of  his 
prosperity,  at  the  gaming-table.  Insect-hunting  might  be  his 
hobby — chicken-hazard  was  his  passion.  Of  the  sums  he  lost 
and  won  there  Lady  Dangeriield  know  nothing  ;  her  apartments 
were  in  the  other  wing  of  Scarswood.  Of  the  unearthly  hours 
of  his  return  home  no  one  knew  but  the  head  groom,  who  aa^ 
up  for  liim  and  took  his  horse,  and  was  well  paid  for  his  silence 
and  his  service.  As  a  rule,  Sir  Peter's  losses  and  gains  were 
pretty  equal ;  he  was  an  adept  at  chicken-hazard,  and  no  more 
skilled  gamester  frequented  the  place. 

On  the  night  then  following  Miss  Herncastle's  adventure.  Sir 
Peter  rode  gayly  homeward  at  a  nmch  earlier  hour  than  usual, 
the  richer  by  six  hundred  pounds.  He  was  in  high  good  spirits 
— for  him  ;  the  night  was  lovely — bright  as  day  and  twice  as 
beautiful.  In  his  elation  all  his  constitutional  dread  of  ghosts, 
of  "black  spirits  and  white,  blue  spirits  and  gray,"  vanished, 
and  he  was  actually  trying  to  whistle  a  shrill  little  tune  as  he 
scrambled  along.  The  clocks  of  Castleford,  plainly  heard  in 
the  stillness,  were  striking  twelve  as  the  baronet  entered  his  own 
domain  and  rode  up  the  avenue. 

What  was  that  ? 

His  horse  had  s.hied  so  suddenly  as  nearly  to  throw  him  off. 
thty  were  near  a  huge  oak,  called  the  King's  Oak,  from  the 
iegend  that  the  young  Pretender  had  once  taken  refuge  there 
fcom  his  pursuers.  Its  great  branches  cast  shadows  for  yards 
around.  And  slowly  out  of  those  gloomy  shadows — a  ^gure 
came — a  white  figure,  with  streaming  hair,  and  f^ice  upturned  to 
the  starry  sky.  All  in  white  -tru«"  ghostly  garments — nois^lesa, 
Oow,  it  glided  out  and  stood  full  in  his  path. way. 

The  bright,  cold  Hght  of  tlie  moon  shone  full  upon  i^  mmI  I»« 
l&w — the  dead  face  of  Katlienne  DangerfTild  ! 
16 


i 


m 


>52 


*'  4S    IN   A    niASS,    nARKIV 


i 


I-    .-11 


t, 


i'ijni' 


KAthehne  Dangerfield  !  Not  a  duubl  of  't.  Who  shoAij! 
know  the  face  better  than  he  ?  as  he  useil  to  see  ner  long  ag« 
in  her  white  dress  and  flowing  hair.  Kalherine  Dangerfield, 
with  a  face  of  stone  upturned  to  the  midnight  sky. 

He  sat  frozen  for  a  moment—  frozen  with  a  horror  too  iaten»c 
foi  words  or  cry,  7X<f«  the  startled  horse  shied  again,  and  t 
■tiriek  rang  out  in  the  midnight  stillness,  those  who  heard  rnigiit 
never  forget.  The  horse  plunged  madly  forward,  and  there 
oras  the  sound  of  a  heavy  fall. 

The  groom,  half  asleep  at  his  i)ost,  mshed  out ;  two  or  thre« 
dogs  barksd  loudly  in  thf»ir  kerr^.cis.  The  ^room  rushed  ibr 
war'  and  seized  tht  hr  r%c,  ijmv.rJig  with  alTriglt.  He  wau 
riderless.  At  a  lii.le  disiCfv  c  lay  Sir  !*eter,  face  downward,  on 
the  dewy  grass,  like  a  d  id  nw..  And  nothing  else  earthly  or 
unearthly  was  anywhere  to  be  seen. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

"as  in  a  glass,  darkly." 

HE  groom  echoed  his  master's  cry  as  he  stooped  and 

lifted  him  up.     He  was  senseless  ;  he  had  struck  hii 

forehead  on  a  stone,  and  was  bleeding  freely.     It  was  an 

awfully  ghastly  face  upon  which  the  moonlight  shone. 

The  double  alarm  had  been  heard.     In  tive  minutes  another 

of  the  grooms,  sleeping  over  the  stable,  came  running  to  the 

spot 

"  T*  maister  hurt,"  groom  number  one  explained ;  '*  been 
flung  off  his  horse.  Gi'  us  a  hand  here,  my  lad,  and  help  uf 
itft  him  oop  and  carry  him  into  house  '' 

They  bore  the  stark  and  bleeding  form  between  them.  fouiiO 
his  night-key  in  his  pocket,  opened  the  door  and  carried  bird 
up  to  his  own  room.  One  or  two  of  the  servants  appeared — 
the  alann  was  speeding  through  the  household. 

"  Best  tell  my  lady,"  some  one  said  ;  "  an*;!,  Davis,  Visuln't 
(hec  better  go  to  Castleford  fo:  a  surgeon  ? ' ' 

Both  suggestions  were  acted  on  ;  my  lady  was  summo!>ed, 
vc«7  much  startled  and  very  peevish  at  being  disturbed  in  ha 
^*  beauty  sleep." 


i 


i^M 


**AS  r^  ,4  CfLAs.^.  nAMfrrv** 


j6i 


ho  8ik^<&M 
r  long  ag« 
angerfield, 

GO  ijitenK' 
ain,  and  t 
sard  migiii 
and  thert 

vo  or  thre« 

ushcd  ibr 

He  was 

'nward,  on 

earthly  or 


5oped  and 
struck  hie 
It  was  an 
^ht  shone. 
;s  another 
ing  to  the 

A ;  '*  been 
d  help  UF 

sm.  fouiid 
irried  hird 
)pearcd — 

is,  Vuuki't 

iHimoned, 
)ed  m  hei 


I 


"  And  irhat  could  j^  do  f  '  she  fretfully  asked.  "  Of  wlwii 
«i«c  was  it  siunmoning  her  ?  " 

All  was  conmsion,  servants  standing  nonphissed,  my  lady** 
only  emotion,  as  she  stood  in  her  flowing  white  wrapper,  gazing 
w:i\\  much  disfavor  at  tne  bleeding  face  and  motionless  hg\uc, 
&i"  •  of  anger  at  being  routed  out.  The  groom  had  gone  for  die 
|lii/-^ee!i ;  pending  the  surgeon's  a'  -ival,  nothing  seemed  hkel| 
'ir  ')e  don  r.  in  the  midst  of  the  "  confusion  worse  confounded' 
t,::^eare«.'  ^pon  the  scene  Miss  Herncastlc,  also  in  a  wrapjier, 
k'armed  by  the  noise,  and  carrying  a  night-lamp  in  her  hand. 

"Oh,  Mi'')S  Hcincastle  !"  iwy  lady  exclaimed,  "  perhaps  yat, 
may  know  what  to  do.  1  am  sure  1  don't,  and  it  was  n)Ost  in- 
considerate awakening  me  in  this  manner,  when  my  nights  arf 
so  broken,  and  with  my  shattered  nerves  and  all.  And  then 
the  sight  of  blood  always  makes  nie  sick.  Perhaps  ycu  can  do 
something  for  Sir  Peter;  he  has  had  a  fall  off  his  hor  <•,  aiid 
seems  to  be  stunned.  1  don't  believe  he  is  killed.  I  v  uh  v  » 
would  see,  and  if  it's  not  dangerous  I'll  go  back  to  be  ;.  i  i^ 
lady  shivered  in  the  chill  night  air;  the  great  room'.-  ijd  '  ;ng 
corridors  of  Scarswood  were  draughty  "  I  would  sta.  v  tli 
pleasure,  of  course,  if  there  was  any  real  dangei  or  ^'f  >ii 
Peter  were  dying,  or  that  kind  of  thing,  but   I  know  ,       :i  not.'' 

"  I  dare  say  y(ju  would,"  more  than  one  o^  the  servants  pres 
ent  thought,  as  ihey  listened  to  this  wifely  s[)eech,  and  smiled 
furtively.  "  If  Sir  Peter  were  dying,  my  lady,  you  would  stay 
with  pleasure." 

Miss  Herncasf.le's  calm,  pale  face,  looking  more  marble-like 
than  ever  in  the  fitful  lamplight,  bent  over  the  rigid  little  baro- 
net. She  felt  his  pulse,  she  wiped  away  the  blood  with  a  wci 
sponge  and  discovered  the  trifling  nature  of  the  cut,  and 
turned  to  my  lady. 

"  Sir  Peter  is  in  a  fainting  fit,  I  think,  my  lady  ;  probably,  too, 
.stunned  by  the  shock  of  his  fall.  The  wound  is  nothing,  a 
mere  scratch.  There  is  not  the  slightest  danger,  I  ani  sure, 
and  not  the  slightest  necessity  for  your  remaining  here,  la 
your  delicate  state  of  health  you  may  get  your  ijealh  of  cold" 
My  lady  had  never  been  sick  two  hours  in  ner  whole  lifr. 
''Permit  me  to  urge  "ou  to  retire,  J  ady  Dangerfield.  /wiU 
remain  and  do  all  that  is  necessary.' 

"  Veiy  well,  Miss  Herncastle,  I  believe  I  umst.  1  fear  i 
shall  be  ill  as  it  is  after  the  shock  ;  my  nervous  system  feel* 
completely  unstrung.  !f  there  should  be  any  danger  I  bcj 
you  win  send  me  word  the  very  first  thing  in  the  morning." 


11 


t 


IM 


:'4' 


I      \  i 


}64 


•*  ^.V   IN  A    o/JSJi,    tiAR/CLY,^ 


':•(  ' 


III 


\h\- 


i  lij  1 

1:'."    \\      ' 


»    if, 


And  tlicn  my  laJy,  with  .s  «rrfl<  hed  expression  of  cmnv 
tenance,  wended  hvr  way  back  to  lu*d,  and  Miss  F-lemcast)4 
had  charge  of  the  lord  jf  Scarswood.  She  dismissed  all  the 
gaping  servants,  with  one  or  two  exceptions — the  housekeejic! 
and  a  man — and  set  to  work  with  the  air  of  one  v;\\q>  tmder- 
Uood  her  business.  She  bathed  his  face  and  temples  w'th  ice- 
rater  ;  she  slapiH'd  his  palms  ;  she  applietl  sal-volatile  and  burnt 
Others  to  his  nostrils;  and  presently  there  was  a  flutter  of  the 
jsriorless  eyelashes,  a  tremor  all  over  the  body,  and  Sir  Peter's 
unall,  neau" -sighted,  pale  blue  eyes  opened  end  fixed  on  Miss 
llemcastle. 

"  My  dear  Sir  Peter,  how  do  you  feel  now  ?  "  the  soft,  sweet 
tones  of  that  most  soft,  sweet  voice  asked.  "  Better,  I  sincerely 
trust  1 " 

He  had  not  known  her  at  ftri»t ;  he  blinked  and  stared  help- 
lessly in  the  lamplight ;  but  at  the  second  look,  the  sound  ^f 
her  voice,  an  awful  expression  of  l^orror  swept  over  his  couD 
tenance ;  he  gave  another  wild  cry  of  affright,  half-started  up, 
and  fell  back  senseless  once  again 

It  was  really  a  tragic  scene.  All  the  exertions  of  the  gover- 
ness failed  to  restore  him  this  second  tim?;.  The  momenth 
dragged  on ;  the  housekeej)er  (not  Mrs.  Ilarrit^on  of  Sir  John's 
reign,  en  passant ;  she  had  left  upon  her  master's  death)  and 
the  butler  sat  dumb  and  awe-stricken  Miss  Herncastle  nevei 
wearied  in  well-doing,  api)lied  her  restoratives  incessantly, 
until  at  last,  as  all  the  clocks  in  Scars  wood  were  chiming 
the  half  hour  after  three,  the  groorji  and  liie  surgeon  came. 

The  surgeon  was  a  young  man,  i  new  practitioner,  and  con- 
fidered  very  skilful.  He  brought  Sir  Peter  round  for  the 
s(;cond  time,  presently,  and  once  more  the  baronet's  eyes 
opened  to  the  light  of  the  lamps,  and  the  moon  streaming  in 
ihrough  the  bars  of  the  Venetians. 

He  stared  around,  bewildered,  his  face  still  keeping  its  ex 
jwession  of  horror,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  faces  of  the  physician, 
the  housekeeper,  and  the  butler.  Then  he  spoke  in  an  awe- 
itricken  whisper . 

"  Where  is  i,^;" 

"Who ?  "  It  was  the  surgeon  who  a.sked.  " Whom  do  you 
gacan,  my  dear  Sir  Peter  ? — Lady  Dangerfieldl  ?  " 

**l  mean  Katherine  Dange»6eld." 

The  young  doctor  had  heard  that  story,  stranger  though  h« 
^7A — '^^  heard  of  Sir  Peter's  delusive  and  ghostly  belief  and 
shook  his  head. 


i 


J  f 


**AS    rU    A    Gf.ASS,    nA/fttl.V 


cmnv 

ncastU 
all  the 
:kee|)e? 
imder- 
'th  ice- 
d  burnt 
r  of  the 
Peter's 
m  Miss 

;,  sweet 
ncerely 

;d  hel{>- 
oiind  "^f 
is  COUD 

rted  up, 

t  gover- 
loinenth 
r  John's 
th)  and 
e  nevei 
ssantiy, 
chiming 
wne. 
nd  con- 
for  the 
t's  eyes 
ming  in 

g  its  ex 
lysician. 
an  awe. 


do  you 


3«5 
Your 


"Th«rc  it  no  such   oerson  her^r,  my  dear  Sir  )Vl*!f  I 
mind  ii  still — " 

Sir  Peter  raised  himself  up  on  his  elbow,  with  j,  &uk  ot  mcoiu 

"I  tell  you  I  saw  her — saw  her  twice  !  Doii  t  talk  to  me  cH 
.ny  mind,  you  fool  I  I  saw  her  !  She  came — oh,  Heaven  I  — 
she  came  and  stood  before  me  out  there  under  the  trees,  all  if 
white,  her  hair  flowing,  and  her  dead  eyes  turned  up  to  the 
stars  I  I  saw  her  !  1  saw  her  !  and  I  live  to  tell  it  1  And  five 
minutes  ago  1  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  her  again,  her  dead 
eyes,  her  stem  face  looking  over  the  bed  ! " 

The  young  doctor  recoiled.  Had  Sir  Peter  gone  entirely 
mad? 

Mrs.  Butler,  the  housekeeper,  came  forward — a  genteel  creat- 
are,  and  the  widow  of  a  curate. 

"My //far  Sir  Peter,  you  alann  yourself  unnecessarily.  1 
assure  you" — Mrs.  Butler  reveled  in  words  of  three  syllables 
— **  it  was  the  governess,  Miss  Herncastle,  whom  you  beheld  a 
few  minutes  ago  when  consciousness  returned.  My  ilear  Miss 
Herncastle,  pray  come  forward  and  corroborate  my  assurance. ** 

Miss  Herncastle,  hovering  aloof  in  the  moonlight  and  the 
shadows,  came  slowly  forward,  speaking  as  she  came. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  startled  Sir  Peter  by  my  unfortunate 
resemblance  to  his  dead  relative.  Mrs.  Butler  is  right ;  it  was 
1  you  saw  a  few  moments  ago.  Sir  Peter." 

He  sat  up  in  bed  gazing  upon  her,  the  wild  look  of  horroi 
dying  slowly  out  of  his  wizzen,  little,  pinched  face,  and  an  ab 
ject  look  of  fear  coming  in  its  place.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  him,  steadily,  strongly,  intensely.  What  mesmeric  powei 
was  there  in  those  calm  gray  eyes  to  subdue  him  to  her  will  ? 

"  Lie  down,  Sir  Peter,"  she  said  very  gently,  "  and  let  me 
give  you  some  medicine.  Will  you  not  order  him  a  sedative, 
a  composing  draught,  Mr.  Weymore?  I  am  sure  he  needs  it 
I  will  administer  it,  and  will  watch,  with  Mrs.  Butler,  until 
morning." 

The  young  doctor  obeyed.  He  prepared  the  sedative,  and 
Miss  Herncastle  administered  it.  Sir  Peter  took  it  fron^,  hef 
hand,  spell-bound  it  seemed,  unable  to  refuse,  unable  to  take 
his  fascinated  eyes  off  her  fiice.  Then  he  lay  back  ;  she  ar 
ranged  his  pillows,  smoothed  the  coverlet,  made  him  comfort- 
ible.  as  only  a  deft-handed  woman  can.  All  the  time  his  eyes 
never  left  hei  face — all  the  time  he  never  uttered  a  word.  The 
speU  of  some  mesn»crir  force  was  up^*^  ^ira,  and  rendered  him 
obcdifist^  to  her  will 


'\/i 


•wi 


«(!» 


4S    IN   A    <*l  ASS      DAItKLY.^ 


f'iil, , 


I  .1 


,  ! 


''     '(1 


Mr.  We)rmore,  the  CiisUcford  •Kirgeoii,  took  has  depait' 
are. 

"  Nothing  ailed  Sir  Peter  but  shattered  nerves  ,  he  wanted 
rest,  repose,  tonic:,,  cheerful  society,  entire  change  of  air.  He 
iaw,"  he  said,  "  he  left  him  in  excellent  hands,"  with  a  glance 
itf  admiration  at  the  calm,  serene  young  lady.  "  He  would  go 
now,  and  call  early  the  ensuing  forenoon.  (lood-niglit,  Mist 
Herncastlc."  And  Mr.  VVeymore,  with  a  second  admiring 
£lanc«  at  that  Juno-like  form  and  grave,  thoughtful  face,  to<jk 
his  hat  and  his  departure. 

The  sedative  had  its  effect — Sir  Peter  fell  asleep,  Mrs.  Hut- 
Icr  nodded  in  her  easy  chair,  Miss  Herncastle  drew  the  curtains, 
raised  the  blind,  seated  herself  by  the  window,  and  with  her 
chin  on  her  hand,  looked  out.  It  was  past  four ;  the  waning 
moon  was  dropping  pale  out  of  sight  in  the  west,  the  eastern 
isky  was  flushing  and  brightening  already  with  the  beauty  and 
splendor  of  a  new-born  summer  day.  The  tall  trees  stcxx] 
motionless,  the  waving  grass  and  cowslips  were  glistening  with 
dew,  long  silver  lances  of  light  pierced  the  mysterious  green 
depths  of  waving  fern.  It  was  beautiful — beautiful.  Of  what 
did  Miss  Herncastle  think  as  she  sat  therii  with  somber  face 
and  duskily  brooding  eyes?     After  days  darkly  tolJ. 

Sir  Peter  fell  into  a  deep,  refreshing,  natural  ulezp  as  the 
mornmg  wore  on.  Some  time  after  sunrise  Lady  Cc",»I  entered, 
hearing  for  the  first  time  of  what  had  occurred,  ar4  offered  iu 
her  kindly,  gentle  way  to  take  Miss  Herncastle's  place.  Very 
haggard  in  the  rosy  brightness  of  the  July  sunrise  Miss  Hern- 
castle looked,  her  eyes  heavy,  her  cheeks  pale. 

"  Go  to  your  room  at  once,"  Lady  (^ecil  said.  "  You  look 
quite  worn  out.  Pray,  do  not  attempt  teaching  to-day.  After 
you  have  slept  and  breakfasted  go  for  a  long  walk  You  need 
It,  I  am  sure." 

She  murmured  her  thanks  and  went.  And  Lady  Ce-'il,  wiin 
Ihc  upper  housemaid  for  companion,  took  her  vacated  posl. 
My  laidy  still  slumbered — her  wretched  nerves  ahvays  lequired 
her  to  lie  abed  until  eleven  o'clock. 

The  news  spread,  as  such  news  is  pretty  sure  to  do.  B7 
»oon  that  day  all  Castleford  knew  that  Sir  Peter,  riding  home 
at  midnight  (pretty  hour  for  a  magistrate  and  a  baionet  to  be 
gadding),  had  beheld  Katherine  DangeriiekVs  ghost  under  the 
trees  of  Srarswood,  had  fallen  from  his  horse  in  a  tit,  had  suiick 
bis  temple  on  a  stone,  and  now  lay  at  Death's  door,  if  he  had 
aot  already  entered  that  gloonj^  portal.     The  news  spread  -  i; 


I 


look 

After 

lU  need 


••  AS  IK  A    GLASS,    DAHKL  K  •• 


3^7 


!he  talk  of  the  town,  ami  among  others  caiae  iO  :itc  e<ui 
•fC*|>Uin  O'Donnell. 

"Saw  a  ghost,"  the  chasseur  thought,  knitting  hia  bro»«r»,  ir 
a  reflective  frown  :  '*  what  fooling  is  this  ?  Saw  Kathcrinc 
Dangerfield — Humph  !  Ha^  somebody  been  playing  a  practici} 
joke  at  the  superstitious  little  baronet's  expense,  I  womlcr  ?  \% 
ir&lk  ovrer  and  sec." 

He  walked  down.     It  was  past  three  when  he  reached  S<  &rt 
wood.     On  the  grounds  he  encountered  Lady  Cecil  ('live  9S\i 
the  twins  out  for  a  holiday.      He  joined  the  trio  at  once. 

"  Good-morning,     Lady    Cecil.     Hon   Jour,    mesdftnoiselUi 
Pansey  et  Pearl.     Lady  Cecil,  what  ghastly  news  is  it  that  'i 
galvanizing  all  Castlcford  ?     1  don't  understand  it.     Sir  Petcv 
has  seen  a  ghost." 

"So  Sir  Peter  says.  Captain  O'Donnell;  and  who  should 
know  better?  He  had  been  somewhrre  in  Castleford  until 
close  upon  midnight,  the  traditional  ghostly  hour,  and  riding  up 
the  avenue  he  saw  the  ghost  of  Kalluiine  I)an;;cili(.ld  -a  lady 
six  years  dead  1  She  came  gliding  out  from  bciuMth  the  King's 
Oak— she  was  all  in  white,  of  course.  She  frightened  his  horijc 
— it  started  and  threw  him.  That  is  Sir  Peter's  story — he  re- 
members no  more.  Wilson,  the  head  groom,  supplements  the 
marvellous  tale  by  saying  he  heard  the  most  'hotTuUest  scream' 
that  ever  was  heard,  and  rushing  to  the  spot,  foujul  Saracen 
quivering  with  terror  and  Sir  Peter  in  a  dead  fiunt  on  ihe 
ground.  The  ghost  had  gone.  That  is  the  legend,  as  we 
heard  it;  the  facts  are,  Sir  Peter  was  certainly  thro«%'n  on  hia 
horse,  and  now  lies  ill  and  feverish  up-stairs.  His  serves  are 
in  such  a  state  that  he  nearly  falls  into  spasms  if  left  a  m(*(/«ent 
alone." 

"Who  is  with  him?"  Captain  O'Donnell  asked.  He  har! 
listened  very  gravely  and  thoughtfully  to  Lady  Ocil's  expluna 
tion. 

"  Miss  Hemcastle.     She  is  an  excellent  mirse,  it  appc.uf 
^d  he  is  docile  as  an  infant  in  her  hands,  though  fraciious  hv 
/end  belief  will  the  rest  of  us,  I  believe."     Lady  Cecil  tritd  !'.. 
speak  very  carelessly,  "Sir  Arthur  Tre^enna  is  ihere  also." 

The  chasseur  Mfted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her  keenly  for  m 
moment.  She  did  not  meet  that  blue  piercing  glance  ;  fihs 
kad  stooped  and  was  fijathering  the  hyacinths  at  her  feet. 

"Miss  H*:rncast]e,"  lie  rf"peate<]  that.  "And  ne  is  piiisssi/?:. 
w  a  diild  in  her  hands,  is  he  ?  Now  that  is  odd,  'oo.  ^  ?sja 
ci«d  he  d^liked  and  feared  Miss  Hcrncastlc,  because  oJ  b/.r  \m 


1/ 


■  n:^;! 


■i^ 


1 


ii' 


#fh 


I'  til 


..if;  ;i'  '; 


i^ii 


If' 

ill 


mil  ;•.., 

m  V  i 


II 


;  s 

HI 


568 


'>«5    /A'  /f    CLASS,    /fAAALK" 


vxxmntable  or  fancied  resemblance  to  this  verv  dea  1  Kathenn« 
Djingerficld." 

"  So  he  said.  I  don't  jreter.d  to  understand  it,  or  half  the 
other  things  I  see,  but  so  't  is.  She  gave  hini  a  second  tenible 
bightj  too,  last  night." 

"How?" 

"  She  came  down  and  took  cJiarge  of  him  when  he  was  first 
^t>ught.  inj,  it  appears.  47inevTa  was  there,  of  course  ;  but 
poor  Ginevra — of  what  earthly  use  is  sh^  in  a  sick  room  ?  She 
went  back  to  her  chamber  when  convinced  there  was  no  danger, 
And  Miss  Ilemcastle  went  to  work,  Mrs.  Butler  says,  as  tiiough 
•he  had  been  a  hospital  nurse  all  her  life,  and  restored  him  to 
consciousness.  The  moment  he  saw  who  it  was,  he  uttered 
the  most  dreadful  shriek,  and  fell  back  in  a  second  swoon." 

"Ah  i"  Capiain  O'Donncll  said,  intensely  interested. 

"  They  could  do  nothing  with  hini  then,  until  the  surgeon 
came.  When  next  restored  his  first  question  was  '  Wjiere  is 
she  ?  *  *  Who  ? '  the  surgeon  asked.  '  Katharine  Dangerfield,' 
was  the  wild  answer  ;  *  i  sav  her  twice  to-night — once  out 
under  the  trees,  and  five  minutes  ago  by  my  bedside !  *  He 
was  like  a  man  mad,  they  say,  at  first,  then  Butler  explained 
Jhat  he  was  mistaken,  that  he  had  seen  no  one  but  Miss  Hern- 
castle,  and  Miss  Hemcastle  came  forward  and  confirmed  her 
words.  She  looked  at  him  steadily  with  those  great  eyes  of 
hers — (you  should  see  Mrs.  liUtier  glare  when  describing  it) 
and  he  subsided  immediately,  like  a  terrified  child.  1  look  her 
place  early  in  the  morning — she  looked  fagged  to  death — and 
Ginevra  came  in  for  a  few  minutes  at  noon  ;  but  strange  to  say, 
he  asked  for  Miss  Herncastle,  and  seemed  restless  and  feverish 
until  she  came.  Now  he  is  perfectly  (juiet.  The  tableau  in 
the  sick  room  is  this — Sir  Arthur  readiiig  gravely  aloud  the 
Cttstleford  Chronicle  at  one  side  of  the  bed,  Miss  Hernca^tJe 
jravely  embroidering  at  the  othe'  and  Sir  Peter,  lying  with  wide- 
open  eyes  that  never  leave  Miu;,  Herncj-stle's  face.  They  all 
looked  so  very  well  content,  that  I  came  awjy." 

She  laughed  a  little  and  gathered  more  hyacinths  for  her 
bouquet  Again  the  soldier  glanced  at  her  with  those  blue, 
brilliant  eyes  of  hi.^  but  again  the  brown  eyes  were  intently 
fiiTted  OB  \i^  flowers.     Was  Lady  Cecil  jealous  ? 

"  It  is  %  pity,  no  doubt,  to  i!"iterru]>t  so  happy  and  wcI?  lis- 
sortcd  a  p<irty,"  he  said,  **  still  1  think  1  will  be  vandal  eatjug^ 
to  do  it  I  am  very  much  interested  in  this  matter,  and  ai-j  go 
U)|[  to  tiin^  amateur  detective  and  probe  it  to  the  bottom.     A 


f 


i 

^ 


^AS   'A    A    CLASS,   DA/fJCLY.** 


569 


Veritable  ^ost  in  this  nineteenth  r  mtury  is  a  novel  and  won 
^erfiil  cunosity  ;  let  us  make  the  most  of  it.  It  is  sonieihing 
even  to  see  a  man  who  has  seen  a  ghost.  It  has  never  beer 
my  good  fortune,  in  all  my  varied  experience,  to  meet  one  be 
fore      I  shall  go  at  once  and  *  interview '  Sir  Peter." 

Ke  bowed  and  departed,  and  Pansy  and  Pearl,  who  ha.d  ra* 
offi  rejoined  Lady  Cecil. 

"  How  nice  he  is,  aunty,"  Pearl  said,  "  with  such  white  teeth* 
land  good-natured-looking,  and  everything.     He's  nicer  than  S*! 
Arthur.     I  don't  like  Sir  Arthur,  Pansv  don't  like  Sir  Arthui 
nor  Papa  Peter,  nor  Major  Frankland." 

"He's  lovely,"  said  Pansy,  "only  he's  too  big.  They're  aM 
too  big  except  Papa  Peter,  Aunt  (.'ecil,  when  1  grow  up  1 
should  like  to  marry  Captain  O'Donnell     shouldn't  you  ?" 

I^ady  Cecil  blushed  a  little,  laughed  a  little,  and  kissed  the 
speaker. 

"Captain  O'Donnell  is  flattered  by  your  ])reference, /<'/'//^  ; 
still,  I  think  he  might  find  it  tedious  waiting  until  you  grow  up- 
WTio'll  reach  the  Keeper's  Tree  yonder  first  ?  One — two — 
three — now." 

The  game  of  romps  began,  and  Pansy  forgot  her  matrimonial 
projects.  And  the  object  of  hir  nine-ycif-old  affections  ran  up- 
stairs, and  was  shown  into  Sir  Peter's  room.  The  tableau  was 
as  l^ady  Cecil  had  described  it,  only  Sir  Arthur  had  ceased 
reading,  and  was  gazing,  as  well  as  Sir  Peter,  at  the  calm  face 
opposite,  and  the  white  rapid  fingers  and  gleaming  needle, 

"  I  trust  I  am  not  an  intruder.  Sir  Peter,"  the  young  Irisli 
man  said,  coming  forward,  "but  hearing  of  your  accident — " 

"Come  in,  O'Donnell-  come  in,"  the  sharp  querulous  voicp 
of  the  invalid  said  ;  "  I  wanted  to  see  you.  if  you're  tired  stl 
ting  here,  Sir  Arthur,  perhaps  O'Donnell  will  take  your  place.' 

"  With  pleasure,  Sir  Peter."  The  chasseur  came  forward 
saluted  the  lady  and  the  Cornish  baronet,  and  took  Sir  Arthur  ? 
vacated  seat. 

"And  with  your  permission.  Sir  Peter,  now  that  Captair 
CDonneli  has  come,  1  will  go  too.  I  have  not  been  out  ta 
day,  and  my  head  aches.  I  will  administer  your  mccficinc, 
though  before  I  go." 

He  took  it  submissively  from  her  hnnd.  Captain  O'Donn^JI 
watched  every  movement,  and  followed  with  his  eyes  the  stated 
figure  out  of  the  room.  She  clostul  ti\<'  door  after  her,  and  tiu  , 
were  qoite  alone, 

"  This  if  ft  very  strange   -a  venr'  remarkable  occurrence,  Si) 

18* 


i 


n 


V>i 


i  c 


I  J 


3)M> 


**AS  IN  A    GLASS,  DARKI  K." 


\%VX.  ■ 


\   u 


FctCT,"  he  began.  "The  talk  is,  that  you  saw  a  ghost.  Nc  n 
I  thought  ghosts  were  exploded  ideas  ?  Will  you  pardoa  mc  iJ 
I  think  so  still?" 

"J  wish  to  Heaven  /could,"  Sir  Peter  groaned.  The  after 
EUton  sunshine  was  pouring  into  the  rocni ;  his  nerves  had  re 
covered  their  tone,  and  he  had  a  comjianion.  He  could  taiJi 
sufficiently  calmly  now  o(  the  a})parition.  "Unfortunately  foi 
oie,  it  admits  of  no  doubt.  As  i)lairily  as  I  see  you  sitting 
here  beside  me,  I  saw  Katherine  Dangerfield  last  night.  I  «k« 
her  face  plainly — plainly  in  the  light  of  the  moon ;  the  night 
was  clear  as  day.  Saw  her  as  I  have  seen  her  a  hundred  timcR 
here  in  Scars wooij," 

"  And  she  vanished  when  you  looked  at  her  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  when  she  vanished.  My  horse  saw  her  as 
rveW  as  I ;  Wilson  will  tell  you  he  found  liim  trembling  all  over 
vith  terror  when  he  came  up.  He  threw  me — I  fell  and 
fjninted.  I  remember  no  more  until  1  opened  my  eyes  here  in 
this  room,  and — "  He  stopped  and  cast  a  look  of  nervou^  '^read 
"U  the  door. 

"  And  you  thought  you  saw  the  ghost  a  second  time.  You 
mistook  Miss  Hemcastle  for  your  dead  relative ;  she  wasn't  a 
relative,  but  you  know  what  I  mean.  She  is  very  like  her,  is 
»he  not  ?  " 

"Awfully,  frightfully  like  her,"  the  baronet  answered,  in  a 
trembling  tone.  "O'Donnell,  1  tell  you  I'm  afraid  of  that 
woman — I  don't  know  why,  but  I  am.  Perhaps  because  of  her 
resemblance  to  Katherine  ;  perhaps — I  tell  you,  I  don't  know 
why,  but  her  eyes,  her  face,  her  v'oice,  frighten  me.  The^  arc 
90  like — so  like." 

"And  yet  you  persist  in  having  her  with  you,  in  your  room.'* 

"Yes  ;  and  I  can't  tell  you  why  there  either  She  frightens 
me,  and  f?he  fascinates  me.  Why  did  she  ever  come  here  ? 
JVha  is  she  ?  How  dare  she  come  to  be  so  horribly  like  that 
dead  girl  ?  " 

"  How,  indeed  ! "  Captain  O'Donnell  answered.    "  Sir  Peter, 
I  hav(^  a  great  curiosity  concerning  this  Katherine  Dangerfield 
Have  you  any  picture  of  her  ?     I  would  give  a  good  deal  to 
•ec  one." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  the  sick  man  said.  "Do  you  see  that  escri- 
toire over  there  ?  Open  that — the  key  is  in  it ;  open  the  third 
drawer  to  the  left  a:)  1  you  will  fiiui  ,i  j.>h()iograph  of  KatheririC 
Dangerfield,  talcien  a  month  before  she  died.  .^ou  will  sec  th« 
wonderful  likcnesK  at  once  " 


**AS  IN  A    GLASS,   DARKLY:' 


%v 


IS 


Redmond  CDonnell  obeyed.  He  unlocked  the  escritoire, 
opened  the  drawer,  and  produced  a  j>icture  wrapped  in  silvci 
paper.  It  was  a  photograph,  soft  and  r'  ^.x  as  an  engiaving^ 
and  beautifully  tinted.  The  chasseur  to  ,i  to  the  window 
and  gazed  upon  it  long  and  earnestly. 

The  story  of  Katherine  Dangerfield  had  been  told  him  in 
bnef,  by  different  people  at  different  times,  and  its  sad  pathos 
had  touched  him  deeply.  Her  only  fault  had  been  that  sh« 
Kad  loved  '*  not  wisely,  but  too  well,"  had  trusted  too  implicitly, 
and  had  believed  the  man  she  loved,  anfl  was  ready  to  endow 
with  her  fortune,  as  generous  and  faithful  as  herself.  And  all 
had  been  torn  from  her  in  one  bitter  hour — all,  and  Death,  the 
only  friend  who  had  been  true,  came  to  her  aid.  And  now  he 
held  her  picture,  taken  dujing  the  happiest  period  of  her  life, 
the  month  before  her  marriage.  And,  as  Sir  Pcicr  had  said,  the 
first  thing  that  had  struck  him  was  the  strong  rcst-niblance  to 
Miss  Herncastle.  No  one  could  fail  to  look  upon  the  two  and 
not  exclaim,  "How  like  !"  Only  at  first  glance,  though  ;  the 
more  you  looked,  the  more  this  first  striking  similarity  seemed 
to  fade.  It  was  like,  but  could  never  have  been  taken  for  the 
portrait  of  my  lad/s  mysterious  governess. 

He  sat  down  and  deliberately  analyzed  the  features  one  by 
Dne — the  points  of  resemblance.  He  began  at  the  beginning. 
First  the  hair,  this  pictured  hair,  was  brown — pale  chestnut 
brown,  without  a  tinge  of  red  or  yellow:  that  is  if  the  tinting 
had  been  true  to  nature.  It  rip^ded  over  neck  and  shoulders 
and  down  to  ihe  slim  girl's  waist,  a  bright,  feathery  cloud. 
Miss  Herncastle' s  hair  was  jet-black,  straight  as  an  Indian's, 
and  tvisted  in  great  shining  coils  about  her  head.  The  brow 
in  the  picture  was  broad,  open,  intelligent.  Miss  Herncastle's 
hair  was  worn  cr'iph  down  to  her  straight  black  brows.  The 
pictured  eyes  laughed  up  at  you  from  the  card  ;  the  eyes  of  the 
goveiuesij  were  grave,  somber,  smileless.  The  nose  was  th« 
same — the  sairie  precisely — neither  straight  nor  yet  retrouink,^ 
not  classic,  and  not  snub.  The  mouth  was  handsome — the 
handsomest  feature  of  all — square-cut  at  the  comers,  sweet, 
strong,  like  the  eyes,  smiling,  and  with  bright,  resolute  lips. 
The  shape  of  Miss  Herncastle's  was  the  same,  the  expression 
sn'irely  different.  All  the  hard  lines,  the  I'gid  compression^ 
the  grave  resolution  of  the  living  r  loutli  were  wanting  in  the 
pictured  one.  The  chin  was  alike  -a  curved  chin — a  square, 
ictennincti  mouth,  the  tliroat  was  graceful  and  ghhsh,  ihf 
ihoc^'*-**f  niopi75^--rtyr  ^aist  long  and  slender  ,    Miss   Hcs-t> 


tJ! 


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••-«jr  AY  ^    GLASS,   DARKLY."^ 


Clfde'f  propofftsmi«  were   thuse   of  what   men  cadi  "a    €n* 
woman.^ 

The  moments  passed ;  in  the  sick  room  all  was  very  still 
The  buzzing  of  the  big  blue  flies  on  the  [)ane,  the  re-^tless  toss 
ing  of  the  invalid,  the  chirj)  and  rustle  of  summer  Iik  without 
all  were  plainly  audible.  Had  Captain  O'Donnell  fallc: 
asleep  over  the  picture  ?     Feter  broke  out  at  last  impatiently 

"Well,  O'Donnell,  are  you  dreaming  there?  What  ,io  yo: 
think  of  the  picture?  Die!  you  ever  see  such  a  likeness?  I' 
might  be  Miss  Herncastle's  portrait,  might  it  not  ?  " 

O'Donnell  rose  up  and  returned  to  his  place  by  the  bedside, 
picture  in  hand. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  slow,  thoughtful  gravity,  "  never  Misi 
Herncastle's  picture ;  there  is  not  one  expression  of  this  face 
like  any  she  ever  wears.  Shall  I  tell  you,  Sir  Peter,  what  it  is 
like?" 

"  Of  course ;  for  what  other  reason  have  I  shown  it  to  you  ?  " 

"Then  here's  my  opinion  :  If  Katherine  Dangerfield,  instead 
of  dying  and  being  buried  yonder  in  Castleford  cemetery,  hail 
lived,  and  vowed  vengeance  for  her  wrongs,  and  came  back 
here  to  wreak  that  vengeance,  this  pictured  face  would  look 
now  as  Miss  Herncasde's  does." 

Sir  Peter  half  raised  himself,  alarmed,  excited. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  This.  This  photographed  face  is  full  of  latent  power,  unde 
veloped,  unsuspected — to  be  used,  as  circumstances  turn,  fo? 
good  or  evil.  If  Katherine  Dangerfield  had  lived,  and  her  life 
had  been  a  happy  one,  she  would  have  been  one  of  the  best, 
tiie  bravest,  the  most  womanly  of  women— a  model  wife,  an 
excellent  mother,  a  noble  matron.  If  she  had  lived,  wrcngci' 
and  embittered  as  her  life  was,  I  believe,  Sir  Peter,  there  is  n-^ 
evil,  no  depth  scarcely,  to  which  she  would  not  be  cajiable  (/ 
sinking  to  gratify  her  revenge.  It  is  the  face  of  one  whomigh 
have  been  a  dangerous  woman.  This  face  loo'.s  a  little,  a  ver> 
little,  like  Miss  Herncastle.  If  she  had  not  died,  I  should  i^<Si. 
certain  Miss  Herncastle  and  Kathenne  Dangerfield  were  one 
and  the  same." 

There  was  a  blank  pause.  Sir  Peter  lay  back  among  hiif 
pillows,  ^  ified,  helpless.  The  chasseur's  face  was  fuU  o* 
4ark,  grave  ih;.'(.i.;;h:. 

"(k>od  Heavtns,  O'Donnell !"  Sir  Peter  gasped  at  ength 
•^What  iU  yon  \xi\^x\  ?" 

**  I   hfcrf':>\'  rrt^v-  y^,     i  fcei   iike    »   nsan   jfroping  in  ti^* 


% 


si 


ength 
in  th* 


**AS  LV  A    GLASS,    DARKLY,*' 


%n 


diidc.  Sir  Peter,  there  can  be  no  doubt  -  (it  is  absurd  of  nic  to 
inppose  such  a  thing) — there  can  be  no  doubt  Katherine  Dan- 
gerfielddiddie?" 

"  No  doubt  ?  "  cried  Sir  Peter,  shocked  beyond  all  expression* 
"  Of  course  there  was  no  doubt.  Good  Heavens  above  I 
tyDonnell,  I — I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  Dead  !  Why^ 
certainly  she's  dead — dead  and  buried  six  years  ago.  You  caa 
aee  her  grave  any  day,  for  that  matter,  in  Castleford  cemetery." 

"  Ah  1  no  doubt.  Did  I  no>:  say  it  was  a  most  absurd  fu{v 
position  on  nmy  part  ?  Of  course  she's  dead,  as  you  say.  Yoa 
•aw  her  dead,  no  doubt  ?  " 

"  Saw  her  dead  ! "  the  baronet  repeated,  with  a  shudder  ;  **  I 
only  wish  I  had  not.  I  saw  her  dead — cold,  and  white,  and  still 
—I  see  her  so  every  day  of  my  life  ;  and  Talbot  saw  her — ask 
Talbot — he  was  one  of  the  men  who  saw  her  laid  in  her  coffin 
and  in  her  grave.  Dead !  Yes,  she's  dead  -dead — dead. 
Poor  little  Kathie  !  " 

His  voice  choked  ;  he  turned  away  and  covered  his  face  witf) 
his  hands.  His  nerves  were  all  unstrung  ;  he  was  weak  and 
ailing,  frightened  and  lonely,  his  very  life  was  fast  becoming  a 
torture  to  him,  and  he  broke  down.  O'Donnel  looked  at  him 
in  surprise. 

"  You  were  fond  of  your  cousin,  then —  I  mean  of  this  un- 
happy young  lady?     Why  I  thought- -" 

'*You  thought  right,'  the  little  baronet  cried,  passionately, 
"  I  was  not  fond  of  her.  J  was  a  brute,  a  villain,  a  cow  rdly 
wretch.  I  insulted  her — brutally,  i  tell  you,  and  she — "  His 
eyes  dilated,  his  face  grew  ashen  white.  **  /  see  her  'HIL 
O'Donnell/'  he  whispered,  hnskiiy,  "as  she  stood  b'-foie  (i« 
then — like  death,  like  snow,  fn^/ei;  uiid  w'Hit*^  swraring  at 
oath  of  vengeance:  ^/.ii'htff,  f  unll  pursur  you  to  the  fin>  tfj 
the  earth.  Dead,  1  will  ulf/if  Jf /1//1  Iht  ^fu,  /■  and  haur  /».' 
She  swore  it,  and  she  was  on*-,  nyin^///  dead,  to  keep  l.e?  <*fd 
Wha:  I  saw  last  night  ha?  not  be<  <  f!i''  living;  and  wul 

rome  to  rae  from  her  shroud  and  coiiin  A-fyxst;  and  agar     until 
I  go  liikving  mad  at  last." 

His  voice  rose  almost  to  a  shriek  of  jiassi<^m  tiA  i^  The 
last  remnant  of  man's  courage  died  out  of  the  \\\\M^f  ^'  V  lifJl* 
wretch's  body,  and  he  burst  out  intw  a  tempest  of  w  '  ar-t^ 
•obs  and  tears. 

O'Donnell  sat  silent  watching  him — pity,  contempt,  c»sg\vst, 
*ll  in  his  grave,  silent  face.  He  made  no  atu-:npt  to  c^»nriOi«? 
m  aoiGfJnt  til^?<«  stiicken  sinn.«r  ;  most  of  all  th?t  "^^^  9C'''   nnri 


,.:# 


f  /:v! 


M 

ffljiii.  i; 


ill 


}    >' 


t   it 


Ill','  M         '•; 


11 


574 


••-4.^  IN  A    GLASS,    DARKLY r 


tender  in  his  nature  had  died  a  natural  death  years  ago.  Hi 
sat  grimly  enough  now,  waiting  for  j  lull  in  the  stoirn.  It  came. 
Even  Sir  Peter  ))angertield  had  manliness  enough  left  to  be 
ashamed  of  crying  like  a  whip}/ed  schoolboy. 

"  I — I  can't  help  it,  O'Donneil,'   h-  baivi,  j-ileously.     "If  yoa 
only  knew  what  1  have  gone  (hiougij   since  that  time,  what  1 
"ii^-ve  suffered,  what  I  still  suffer,  you  would  feel  for  me.     Kath 
mne  Dangei-field  is  dead,  and  I  saw  her  si)irit  last  night,  as  I'L 
lee  it  again  and  again,  until  i  too  go  mad  or  die." 

"We  have  an  old  adage  in  our  country,"  O'Donneil  said, 
curtly,  "'that  sorrow  is  soon  enough  when  if  ccimcs.'  Now, 
for  my  part,  I  don't  believe  in  ghostly  visitations  of  any  kind, 
in  coniraon  with  most  people  ;  but  that  is  a  i)oint  v/e  won't 
argue.  You  believe  you  saw  a  ghost  last  nitilit,  No*v,  Sir 
Peter,  is  it  not  barely  possible  t;  at  Miss  Herncastle  may  be  a 
wmnambulist,  and  that  ail  anconsijously  she  got  cut  of  bed 
en  sac  de  nuit^  and  that  it  was  she  you  saw  under  the  Kmg's 
Oak?" 

But  Sir  Peter  shook  his  hea''.. 

"No,"  he  said.  "  Sor.ie  one  asked  thai  very  question — the 
carl  I  think  it  was — and  Miss  Herncastle-  replied  that  she  had 
never  walked  in  her  sleep  in  her  life-  that  she  had  gone  to  het 
'oom  at  half-past  ten.     .*''"'  it  wasn't   Miss  Herncastle — it  was 

00  resemblance  this  time — it  was  Katherine  Dangerfield." 
Captain  O'Donneil  shrugged  his  shoulders.     Argument  was 

wasted  here.  He  drew  out  his  watch.  It  was  past  six  now, 
and  Hearing  the  Scarswood  dinner  hour. 

"  I  won't  stay  to  dine  to-day,  1  think,"  he  said  rising.  "  Sii 
Peter,  with  your  permission  I'll  keep  this  picture  for  the  pres(»nt  ; 

1  don't  see  my  way  very  clearly  through  this  maze,  and  I  catii 
believe  your  solution  of  the  enigma.  Katheiine  Dangerfield 
may  not  have  been  noted  for  an  overstock  of  sound  sense  in 
her  lifetiiui«%  but  1  can't  believe  that  her  ghost  would  remain  so 
iUpremcly  Silly  after  six  yeais'  interment  as  to  take  nocturnal 
rajiibics  to  Sca.ri.v(xx!  on  purpose  to  keep  a  most  sensational 
«rcw.  1  simply  can't  believe  it.  Shall  I  i'mg  for  so9ne  one  to 
take  my  place  ?  " 

He  rang.     Mrs,  Butler  and  one  of  rhe  maids  came,  and  the 

chasseur  took  his  departure.     The  faniil)  ,vere  in  their  rooms 

dressing;  he  made  his  way  out  unnoticed;  the  lawn  and  ter 

races  were  deserted  also,  and  he  passed  out  of  tl;e  house  and 

^.t  gates  undisturbed. 

He  walked  on  to  the  town,  lost  in  thought.     Wh&t  ^<i  thi* 


\ 


i      I 


^AS  flf  4   GLMSS,   DARKLVr 


Ml 


1.  Hi 
t  came, 
't  to  be 

"If yoo 
what  1 
Kath 
t,  as  ri' 

ell  said, 
Now, 
\y  kind, 
!e  won't 
Jow,  Sir 
lay  be  a 
of  bed 
2  Ring's 


on — the 

she  had 
le  to  het 
— it  war, 
Id." 

lent  wa.« 
six  now, 


^resent : 
I  cafii 
iger  field 
sense  in 
main  so 
orturnal 
sationa! 
e  one  to 

\  th9 
.  rounxs 
s.n<]  ter 
use  and 

di4  tVii* 


■yitery  meoH  ?  He  might  tJive  thought  the  ghost  a  myth,  • 
i^nent  of  Sir  Peter's  superstitious,  overheated  brain,  but  there 
was  the  evidence  of  the  horse.  The  groom  had  found  him 
quivering  with  terror — he  had  thrown  his  master  ir.  his  frightened 
bound — and  Saracen  was  a  calm,  well-temperecf  «rimal  on  or 
dinary  occasions.  Saracen  was  not  superstitious,  nor  likely  to 
^  terrified  by  optical  illusions.  The  horse  had  seen  somethimg 
—now  what  had  that  someting  been — goblin  or  numan  ? 

It  was  a  riddle  the  Chasseur  d'Afrique  could  not  read.  He 
walked  on  with  knitted  brow  and  perplexed  mind  into  and  be- 
yond the  town.  It  was  very  quiet ;  the  respectable  fourth-class, 
Bhop>keeping,  race-paying  citizens  were  in  their  back  parlors 
drinking  tea.  An  opal  gray  sky  was  overhead,  a  faint  evening 
breeze  was  stirring,  and  the  golden  evening  stars  twinkled  amid 
the  golden  gray.  In  its  peace  and  hush  Captain  O'Donnell 
went  on,  out  into  the  suburbs,  opened  the  quaint  old  gate,  and 
entered  the  solitary  churchyard.  The  deepest  hush  of  all 
reigned  here ;  not  a  sound  but  the  twitter  of  the  birds  in  their 
nests  and  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  could  be  heard.  He  passed 
on,  looking  at  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones,  until  at  last 
he  reached  that  solitary  comer,  where,  under  the  waving  fir- 
trees,  six  years  ago,  they  had  laid  Sir  John  Dangerfi<  !  adopted 
daughter. 

He  paused.  The  gray-stone  was  overrun  with  clematis,  the 
grave  with  grass  and  weeds.  He  pushed  aside  the  fragrant  bloff- 
soms  Mid  rcid  the  inscription : 

Katmkuns, 

rssuroam. 

*  EefUfam — I  shall  ris^  again  ! "  In  the  light  of  these  IsU- 
<- /  events,  how  ominous  the  word  sounded — like  a  threat  firorp 
(he  dead.  He  stood  there  until  the  last  yellow  glimmer  died 
mit  of  the  western  sky,  and  the  whole  expanse  had  turned  cold 
ind  gray.  The  rising  night  wind  struck  chill,  when  at  last  he 
iroused  himself  and  turned  away. 

But  before  he  had  gone  five  yards  he  paused  Then  after  that 
momentary  pause,  he  passed  into  the  shadow  of  a  tree-shaded 
walk,  and  stood  stilL 

A  man  and  a  woman  were  standing  just  inside  the  gatc^ 
screened  from  passers-by  outside,  by  the  elms  that  waved  abovt 
It  yren.  at  that  distance  he  recognized  the  woman's  fignie"- 
it  waa  DOt  to  be  mistaken — it  was  -Miss  Hemcastle. 


ii 


V* 


••AS  IN  J(    '^LASS,    DARKLYr 


If  J 


VV\ 


I 


t    \ 


Fate  WMaed  t  >  t&ke  a  malicious  pleasure  in  throwing  him 
•crosi  her  path,  in  foredooming  him  to  play  the  spy. 

He  stood  still ;  it  was  impossible  to  go  a  step  onward  with 
oat  being  seen,  and  what  would  the  governess  think,  but  that 
lie  had  dogged  her  steps  again  ?     He  stood  still.     The  backs  Hi 
both  were  turned  upon  him,  but  he  knew  Miss   Hern':as.de''i 
stately  figure  and  braring,  and  dark,  plain  dress  immediately 
The  man — who  was  the  man  ?     For  one  moment  O'Donnell's 
%eart  gave  a  bound — a  sickenmg  bound  of  iear      Was  it — was 
H  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  ?     The  height  was  the  same  ;  this  man 
wore  a  gray  suit  and  a  conical  felt  hat  ,  so  did  the  Cornish  bai 
onet  upon  occasions.     Could  it   be  the  chivalrous,  the  high 
minded  Ccmishman  could  stoop  to  such  dece[)tion,  such  double 
dealings,  such  treachery  to  himself  and  I.ady  Cecil  as  to  keej 
private  assignations  with  the  governess  ? 

As  the  thought  crossed  his  mind  the  two  turned,  ; Moved  for- 
ward to  the  gate,  and  he  saw  with  a  sense  of  unutterable  relief 
that  he  was  mistaken.  It  was  not  Sir  Arthur,  it  was  in  no  way 
like  him.  He  saw  the  face  of  an  utter  sti  anger.  The  dayligh* 
8«^ill  lingered,  and  the  moon  shone  radianilv  bright ;  he  saw  thei\ 
fiices  clearly.  Miss  Herncastle,  calm,  statuesque,  as  usual , 
the  m  tall,  fair,  student-like,  with  stooping  shoulders  and  a 
pale,  thin  face.  They  were  speaking  as  they  approached  the 
gate  and  him.  In  the  profound  stillness  the  last  woids  of  Misa 
Herncastle  in  her  rich,  sweet,  full  tones,  came  to  him  : 

"You  must  go  '•  ack,  Henry,  and  at  onre,  to-night.  That 
rou  have  been  at  Ca>tleford  at  all  will  cause  talk  enough.  I 
Had  to  tell  you  Marie  De  Lansac  was  here,  but  I  certainly  did 
not  expect  you  to  answer  my  letter  in  person.  Say  good  by 
now,  and  let  me  go  on  alone  ;  it  would  be  fatal  to  all  my  proj- 
ects to  be  seen  with  you." 

Their  h«inds  clasped.  The  man  murmured  something  ear- 
aestly,  in  t.TO  low  a  tone  to  be  heard.  Miss  Herncastle's  clea? 
voice  respf  cded . 

"  Give  up !  give  up  now,  after  all  I  have  suffered,  all  I  havt 
worked  »o  hard  to  accomplish,  all  I  have  (V.^tt,  already !  Never  1 
You  should  know  me  better  than  that.  The  first  installment  ok 
my  revenge  I  have  had.  What  1  have  swum,  1  will  do  ;  then, 
I  care  little  what  comes.  Good-night,  my  kind,  my  faithfiiJ 
friend ;  go  back  to  London  at  once." 

She  palled  a  thick  lace  vail  she  wore  over  her  face,  and  walked 
awi^y  with  bn  own  rapid,  resolvfee  ttep.     The  man  lingered  foi 


i 


;  him 

with 
ix  that 
icksH 

iaitly 
nnell's 
; — wai 
is  man 
shbai 
;  high 
louble 
o  keej 

red  fol- 
ic relief 
no  way 
kyligb* 
iw  thei\ 
usual , 
aiid  a 
hed  the 
of  Mbi 

,  That 
ugh.  I 
inly  did 
good  by 
ny  proj- 

Ling  car- 
e's clea? 

1 1  have 

Never  I 

Lmcnt  d 

) ;  then, 

faithful 

1  walked 
eredfoi 


rJiTM   .fTO^*'   OF    THh    IVORY   HfiNlATVkE. 


11 J 


nearly  ten  minutes  ;  then  lie,  too,  opened  the  j;iitfe  and  disap- 
peared ill  the  gloaming. 

And  Captain  O'Donncll  !  He  stocd  like  one  pttrih^oi 
ifmrU  De  Lansac  !  his  sister's  I  ,ouisi;uiian  name,  on  T.f  i^s  Hem- 
Castlc's  lips — and  to  this  man  !  VVluit  did  it  mean?  And  her 
revenge — the  oath  she  had  made,  and  meant  to  keep  !  Wha^ 
ttrange,  incomprehensible  jiimhl-j  ot"  mysteries  was  it  altogethei  \ 
His  head  absolutely  turned  giddy  for  a  moment  with  the  suig 
ng  thoughts  that  filled  his  brain. 

Who  was  Miss  Herncastle?  He  glanced  at  the  grave,  and 
the  gray  stone,  gleaming  in  the  moonrays  that  told  the  legend 
of  Katherine  Dangerfield's  death.  If  hCatherine  Dangerheld 
were  dead — i/— what  reason  had  he  to  doubt  it  ?  And  yet  \- 
and  yet  I — his  blue  eyes  flashed,  his  lips  set,  his  face  grew  lik^ 
iron  with  sudden,  stern  resolve. 

"  I'll  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  juggling.  I'll  rtnd  out  wlui 
you  are,  my  mysterious  Miss  Herncastle  !  I'll  find  out  whether 
it  was  Katherine  Dangerfield's  gliost  Sir  Peter  saw  under  the 
King's  Oak,  or — a  living  woman  !  And,  above  all,  I'll  find  out 
what  the  name  of  Marie  De  Lansa(  has  to  do  with  you  or  ihal 
man  i " 


CHAPTER    XVI. 


THE    STORY   O^  THE    IVORY    MINIATURE. 

|ADY  CECiL,"  Lord   Ruysland  said,   "a  irord  with 

you ! " 

It  was  an  ominous   beginning.     The   earl   never 

called  his  daughter  by  her  projjer  name  of  title  unless 
in  a  state  of  unusual  gravity  or  unusual  displeasure.  I'hejr 
were  alone  together.  The  hour  was  just  after  dinner,  and  the 
ladies,  among  whom  the  governess  h  id  figured,  hatl  adjourned 
from  the  dining  to  the  drawing  room.  Miss  O'Donnell  had 
gone  to  the  piano,  my  lady  perused  a  popidar  novel.  Misa 
Herncastle  seated  herself  by  the  window  with  that  filmy  lace 
embroidery — Lady  DangerfieUi  ke{  t  her  coniititntly  employed 
— and  Lady  Cecil,  feehng  oppress^^d  and  out  of  sjiirits  soUiC 
how,  had  ^own  a  black  lace  maniiHa  o\  er  her  head  and  white 
moim«r  4rcw,  ami  sleppeo  Uivousfii  one  of  the  open  windows 


\\ 


I 


r'i 


II 


•a 


'  .'I 


W 


i:: 


:f    I'' 


t,    i 


f,  #8        rMJS  SyXiKY  off    THF.    JVOHV  MmiATUItB. 

i»ut  u]>on  the  lawn,  and  down  to  the  terrac  e.  She  was  paring 
liowly  aiad  thoughtfully  up  and  down,  a  lovely  vision  in  the 
BUiiset,  frhen  her  father's  voice  ;d)rui)tly  spoke  behind  her. 

She  twrned  in  suri)rise.  She  had  imagined  hini  with  the 
•ther  gcntlenncn,  Sir  Arthur,  the  major,  and  Sir  Teier,  over  thf 
wine  and  After-dinner  talk,  and  here  he  was  beside  her,  with  t 
»ce  of  ominous  gravity. 

"  With  me,  papa  ?     Certainly,     What  is  it  ?  " 

But  her  heart  fluttered,  guiltily  a  little,  as  she  asked  the 
jaestion,  what  it  was — something  very  unpleasant,  flasned 
•pt)n  her  at  once. 

"What  is  it  ?  '  Do  you  really  need  to  ask  that  question. 
Lady  Cecil  ?  I  have  come  to  demand  an  explanation  of  you/ 
extraordinary  conduct  of  late." 

My  extraordinary  conduct !     Really,  papa — " 

"  That  will  do !  You  feign  surprise  very  well,  my  dear  , 
but  it  doesn't  deceive  me.  1  repeat — your  extraordmary  con- 
duct (  What  do  you  intend  by  it?  In  regard  to  Miss  Hern- 
castle,  I  mean,  of  course.' 

'•  Mis&  Hemcastle  !  " 

"  Lady  Cecil,  be  goo'H  enough  to  cease  repeating  everything 
1  say  as  if  you  were  a  parrot,"  her  father  said,  more  irritation 
fci  his  face  and  tone  than  she  had  ever  seen  or  heard  there  be- 
fore in  her  life.  "  Your  hearing  is  not  defective,  I  hope — ] 
said  Miss  Hemcastle.  What  do  you  mean  by  your  conduct  to 
that  young  woman  ?  Why  do  you  insist  upon  forcing  her 
|[)ciety  upon  us — Ly  making  her  one  of  the  family,  as  it  were 
— by  having  her  to  dine  with  us  ?  Oh,  don't  lay  the  blame 
upon  Ginevra — she  would  never  think  of  so  preposterous  a 
thing  if  left  to  herself.  1  repeat  once  more,  Lady  Cecil — what 
does  it  mean  ?  " 

*'  Really,  papa," — and  Lady  Cecil  tried  to  laugh — "  I  di<f 
not  know  so  simple  a  matter  would  so  seriously  exercise  you. 
1  thought  you  believed  in  equality,  fraternity — were  a  radical 
of  the  most  rabid  sort  in  politics,  and — " 

"Keep  to  the  point,  if  you  please,"  the  earl  interrupted 
kapatiently ;  "  we're  not  talking  politics  now.  It  does  not 
aaaUer  what  I  believe,  whether  I  am  radical  or  conservative  in 
this  affair,  that  I  can  see.  It  is  a  purely  personal  and  family 
concern.  Cecil !  " — sternly — "  has  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  for- 
mally proposed  to  you  yet  ?  " 

The  fkint  carnation  roi.e  up  all  over  Lady  Cecil' •  fair,  peari| 


I 


i 


paring 
in  the 


-T. 


ith  the 
ver  thf 
with  s 


:ed   the 
flasned 

Liestion, 
of  yoii/ 


^  dear  , 
iry  con- 
,s  Hern- 


er>^thing 
rritation 
here  be- 
hope — 1 
riduct  to 
dng  her 
it  were 
blame 
terous  a 
il — what 


-"I  did 

:ise  you. 
\  radical 

srruptcd 
loes  not 
vative  in 
Ki  family 
nna  for* 

jr,  pearif 


i 


\ 


THE  STORY  OP   THF   IVORY  MrSfAlVRB, 


m 


"  SOf  papa." 

"  I   thought  not,"  but   his   face   darkened    as   he    said  it 
'*  And  whose  fault  is  fAat?     Not  Sir  Arthur's,  1  am  very  ocr 


"  Sir  Arthui's,  surely,  papa.  What  would  you  have  ?  Thr 
ibsurd  customs  of  P'ngland  require  tliat  a  lady  shall  wail  mtj 
ihe  is  asked.  Do  you  wish  me  k  i  go  to  Sir  Arthur  and  orde 
'um  to  marry  me  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  to  act  like  a  rational  being,  to  cease  acting  ir 
Micb  a  manner  as  to  render  a  projiosal  forever  im|)ossible 
Are  you  willfully  blind,  that  you  cannot  see  he  is  falling  in  love 
with  that  confounded  nursery  governess  ?  " 

"My  sight  is  perfect,"  T.ady  Cecil  answered,  coldly  ;  "and 
if  it  were  not  I  still  might  see  that.  Sir  Arthur  takes  little 
pains  to  conceal  his  preference.  As  it  is  prohahly  the  first 
time  that  austere  gentleman  ever  felt  a  touch  of  the  tender 
yassion,  it  would  be  thousand  pities  to  come  between  him  and 
It.     /certainly  shall  not." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  This,  papa,"  Lady  Cecil  said,  "  there  is  no  use  in  getting 
angry  or  excited — that  if  Sir  Arthur  prefers  Miss  Ilerncastle  to 
\c  I  shall  never  be  Miss  Herncastle's  rival.  And  if  he  can 
./onestly  and  tnily  fall  in  love  with  her,  as  I  believe  it  is  in  his 
nature  to  love,  I  honor  and  congratulate  him  on  his  rhoice. 
Why  should  you  or  I  try  to  thwart  it?  lie  Is  not  bound  to 
me  in  any  way  ;  he  cares  a.>  little  for  me,  in  the  way  of  love, 
as  I  do  for  him.  Miss  Ilerncastle  is  a  much  cleverer  woman 
than  I  am,  or  ever  shall  be,  and  if  he  wif*Jies  it,  why,  let  him 
marry  her.  She  certainly  suits  him  nuich  better  than  I  should 
and  for  the  difference  in  rank,  if  /it!  can  overlook  that,  wc 
surely  may.  Of  this  be  very  certain," — her  eyes  Hashed  and 
her  color  rose — "  I  will  accept  no  ma:i's  hand  while  his  heart 
is  another  woman's  though  his  foitune  were  thr«.-e  times  thirty 
(thousand  a  year." 

The  earl  listened,  amaze,  scorn,  anger,  passion,  swaying  al 
temately  over  hi?  placid  face ;  but  he  heard  her  to  the  end. 
Ht8  ey  '.s  wer"  fixed  upon  her  proud,  resolute  face,  the   sneer 
that  raiL^ly  I'-fl  them  curling  his  lips  cynically  now. 

"Fine  sentiments,"  he  said  ;  "fine  heroics,  taken  second  hand, 
no  doubt,  hom  ihc  Castleford  circulating  library.  You  appeal 
to  have  changed  your  mind  of  late,  niv  dear ;  we  did  not  hear 
ibese  lofty  sentiments  when  we  spoke  ^  getlier  some  weeks  ag;8 
of  ibii  nuUter  in  London      But  things  have  changed  since  theOj 


Ui. 


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TB&   SrOMY  Of    THh    ii'(.ry  M/NIATUkiL 


I  I 


aad Other  actors  have  app»*arf(l  upon  the  ift:cne.  I  wunder  now '" 
—he  folded  his  arms  and  looked  at  her  with  sneering  sarcasn' 
— **  whether  the  coming  of  that  very  fine  young  Irishman,  Ret) 
nond  CyDonnelly  has  had  anything  to  do  with  it  ?  ' 

Long  practice  had  taught  him  to  stab  home— surely  an<? 
strongly.  The  flush  of  color  that  had  arisen  to  her  face  li«d 
out  as  he  si>oke,  leaving  her  whiter  than  her  dress. 

**  This  is  your  revenge,"  she  said  slowly  ;  "  but  1  think  ni) 
father  might  have  spared  me  that.  From  other  lips  I  should 
deem  it  an  insult." 

**  Indeed.  And  why,  I  wonder  ?  He's  very  handsome,  he 
has  the  dash  and  the  air  noble  you  women  love,  and  he  is  the 
'hero  of  a  thousand  battles.'  You  all  like  strong  warriors, 
don't  you  ?  And  then — it  may  have  been  fancy — but  I  used 
te  thir^,  long  ago  in  Ireland,  that  you  were  in  some  danger  oi 
— you  understand,  1  suppose  ?  Did  you  ever  wonder,  my  dear, 
why  I  carried  you  off  so  suddenly  ?  That  was  why.  You 
were  only  sixteen,  and  sixteen  is  so  supremely  silly.  And 
though  1  don't  think  your  youthful  penchant  was  returned  at 
that  time,  Irish  hearts  are  proverbially  inflammable,  and  it 
might  have  been.  Being  poor  as  a  church  mouse  yourself,  it 
would  hardly  have  done  to  ally  you  to  another  church  mouse 
as  long  as  bread  and  cheese  are  requisites  of  existence.  I 
carried  you  off",  and  you  pined  on  the  stem  for  a  few  weeks,  then 
Cecil  was  herself  again.  Now  tlie  hero  of  Torryglen  is  with 
us  once  more ;  and  I  remember  the  French  have  a  proverb 
about  one  always  returning  to  his  first  love.  Your  conduct  o< 
late  has  certainly  been  so  extraordinary  that  there  must  be 
some  reason  for  it" 

He  stopped. 

She  never  spoke.  She  was  white  to  the  lips  with  some  pain* 
f'll  inward  emotion  ;  her  brown  eyes  looked  straight  before  her, 
with  a  light  no  one  had  ever  seen  before  in  the  soft  eyes  of  Im 
Reine  Blanche, 

"  You  do  not  answer,"  her  father  said,  beginning  to  feel  that 
he  might  have  gone  too  far ;  "  perhaps  then  1  am  wrong  after 
all  in  my  suppositions.  If  so,  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  thii 
matter  lies  so  near  my  heart,  my  dear,  that  you  will  forgive  me 
if  in  my  displeasure  and  disap))ointment  I  sj)eak  harshly." 

His  heart  I  The  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Ruysland'i 
bent  I  A  smile  crossed  his  dangler's  lips — a  faint,  bitter  smile, 
BOt  ple&sant  to  see  on  lips  so  young  and  sweet. 

**  I  repftat  it."  har  father  said,  as  though  answering  that  toorn 


«r« 


rii£  xrokY  of  thp  n'Oftv  hriNiATUitR. 


'!"! 


sarcasH' 
m,  Re<l 

ely   an<J 
Lce    li«; 

hink  ID) 
[  shou^ 

;ome,  h« 
[le  is  the 
warriors, 
t  I  used 
ianger  ol 
my  dear, 
ly.     You 
y.     And 
:urned  at 
;,  and  it 
)urself,  it 
h  mouse 
ence.     1 
eks,  then 
n  is  with 

proverb 
)nduct  iA 

must  be 


)me  pam- 
jfore  her, 

feel  that 

ong  after 

But  tku 

)rgive  me 
ily." 

uysland*! 
ter  smile, 

Mt  toorr. 


All  snrile  ;  "  my  heart  is  set  upon  your  marriage  with  ihe  «<«o  ok 
taj  oldest  friend.  It  will  be  ihe  bitterest  blow  of  my  life  if  Ui«t 
marriage  is  not  consummated." 

"Papa,"  Lady  Cecil  answered,  "let  us  drop  our  masks — 
there  is  no  one  to  see  or  hear.  Your  heart  is  fixed  on  my 
narriage  with  the  son  of  your  oldest  frieiid.  How  would  it  bi 
if  the  son  of  that  oldest  friend  were  penniless  as — as  Redmon«l 
O'Donnell,  for  instance,  whom  ycu  fear  so  greatly  ?  It  is  the 
*hirty  thousand  a  ^ear  you  wish  me  to  marry,  is  it  not?  It  is 
a  rich  and  liberal  son  in-law  your  h«iart  is  set  on,  I  fancy.  You 
call  it  by  a  prettier  name,  but  that  is  what  it  really  comes  to." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear-  -  on  the  thirty  thousand,  if  you  will. 
I  am  penniless,  you  are  penniless.  Is  the  degradation  of  mar 
rying  a  fortune  greater  than  the  degradation  of  living  on  the 
bounty  of  a  man  like  Peter  Dangerfield  ?  You  are  an  earl's 
daughter,  a  reigning  belle,  high-born  and  high-bred,  and  you 
are  a  pauper.  The  food  you  eat,  the  roof  that  shelters  you,  the 
dress  you  wear,  are  unpaid  for.  This  sort  of  thing  can't  go  on 
forever.  A  crisis  is  very  near  Hight,  exile  for  me  ;  for  you, 
my  proud,  high-spirited  Cecil,  7t>/iat  /  " 

She  leaned  against  a  slender  rose-wreathed  pilaster,  and 
covered  her  face  with  both  hands,  her  heart  too  full  for  words. 

"Truth  is  unpleasant,"  her  father  pursued,  "  but  there  are 
times  when  it  must  be  spoken.  This  is  one  of  them.  You 
are  acting  like  a  fool — 1  really  can't  help  saying  it — and  must 
be  brought  to  your  senses.  Let  us  look  the  facts  in  the  face. 
You  came  down  here  with  every  intention  of  accepting  Sir 
Arthur — Sir  Arthur  comes  down  with  every  intention  of  pro- 
posing.  On  the  day  following  the  picnic  I  know  he  meant  to 
propor-c  ;  I  saw  it  on  his  face-  a«y  one  might  see  it.  Every- 
thing had  gone  on  velvet ;  you  had  played  your  cards  very 
well,"  she  winced  at  the  words — "  our  object  was  attained. 
vVhen  Ginevra  sent  him  into  the  violet  boudoir  in  search  of  you, 
I  could  have  sworn  he  would  have  proposed  before  he  came 
out  Five  minutes  after  I  saw  that  confounded  Miss  Hern- 
castle,  sent  by  the  Demon  of  Mischief,  no  doubt,  follow  and 
spoil  all.  He  met  her,  you  presented  her  as  though  she  had 
been  his  equal,  and  the  trouble  began.  Without  beauty,  with 
out  vivacity,  without  station,  she  is  yet  one  of  these  wotnew 
frhose  subtle  power  is  as  irresistible  to  some  nien  as  it  is  incoin 
prehensible.  What  you,  with  all  your  beauty,  all  your  a^trac 
ttons,  &11  your  prior  claim,  have  failed  to  do,  sh^  has  done.  Ht 
h  an  b^*i<M*ble  man,  and  with  the  ''nnate  simplicity  ^  a  ''b'M 


If 

li 

!■ 


i 


3S2        TBR  STOREY  OP   THE   IVORY  MTNIATVME, 


W'i 


iii-..: 


I  believe  in  my  soul  he  has  nut  the  faintest  idea  t/iat  he  is  f&il 
ing  infatuatedly  in  love  with  her.  She  fascinates  him,  and  ht 
is  led  unconsciously  into  the  trap.  She  is  one  of  your  silent 
Jeep,  dangerous  sort.  She  will  marry  him — mark  my  worda, 
Queenie — that  young  woman  will  marry  him." 

She  looked  up,  pale  and  trenmlous,  in  the  silvery  dask. 

**  Well,  papa,  and  if  she  does  ?  She  will  not  be  the  fcnf 
g^ovemess  who  has  married  a  baronet." 

"  My  dear  there  is  this  of  it.  That  woman  is  no  ordinarj 
governess ;  she  is  an  adventuress,  and  one  of  the  deepest  and 
luost  unprincipled  sort." 

"  Papa !  this  is  cmel,  this  is  unjust.  You  know  nothing  oi 
Miss  Hemcastle." 

"  I  have  eyes  and  I  have  studied  physiognomy  before  now. 
That  woman  is  capable  of  deeds  you  never  think  of;  she  ia 
clever,  deep-thinking,  and  unscrupulous.  She  will  marry  Su 
Arthi». before  he  knows  it,  and  the  day  that  makes  her  his  wif« 
is  the  day  that  ushers  in  his  life-long  misery.  I  can't  stand  by 
and  see  it.     You  must  save  him,  Cecil." 

"  Papa,  it  is  impossible.  Oh,  pray  let  me  alone.  What  can 
I  do  ?  I  liked  him,  I  esteemed  him,  I  might  grow  to  love  him 
in  time,  a^  a  wife  should  do  sc  deserving  a  husband.  While 
his  heart  was  free,  I  was  willing  to  obey  you,  to  retrieve  oui 
fallen  fortunes,  and  marry  him.  But  all  that  is  changed.  We 
have  fallen  very  luw,  but  there  is  still  a  deeper  depth  than  mere 
poverty.  If  he  cares  for  her,  if  he  wishes  to  marry  her,  if  he 
loves  her,  in  short,  it  would  be  degrading  on  my  part  to  accept 
his  hand.  I  do  not  want  to  be  poor,  I  do  not  want  to  anger 
or  disobey  you,  papa,  but  I  cannot — I  cannot — I  cannot ! " 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  sort  of  sob,  her  brown  eyes  were  full  d 
passionate  pleading  and  pain.  Her  fingers  tore  all  unseeing 
the  flowers  from  the  pillar  and  flung  them  wantonly  away. 

"  It  is  not  too  late  yet,"  the  earl  said,  calmly ;  "  the  miscKiei 
has  begun — it  is  not  done.  Trust  to  me  ;  I  will  repair  it — 1 
«?ill  save  him." 

She  looked  at  him  suspiciously. 

"How?" 

**I  shall  have  Miss  Hemcastle  sent  away.  I  shall  explain 
to  Ginevra,  and  at  any  cost  the  governess  shall  be  dismissed 
And  pending  that  dismissal  she  shall  not  be  allowed  to  appear 
in  our  midst.  *  Lead  us  not  into  temptation.'  Not  a  word, 
C«cil :  iu  this  matter  I  shaH  act  as  I  please.  You  mxaX,  zaajry 
Sir  Arthur  Tregenna — you  sh^tU — not  fat*>  yi^tM  can  f«rt  fou. 


TBR  STOR\    OF   THE   fVORY  MINIATURE,        303 

rhiii  ia  the  last  evening  of  Miss  Ilcrncastle's  appearance  iu  the 
drawing-room — the  last  week  (if  I  can  manage  it  so  speedily) 
of  lier  stay  at  Scarswood.  And  for  you,  don't  hold  poor  Tre» 
gcnna  at  arm's  length  as  you  do.  You  avoid  him  on  erery 
possible  occasion ;  you  slip  away  and  leave  him  whenever  70QI 
can.  Dan't  let  me  fancy  my  suspicions  about  O'Donnell  af0 
Cunect." 

Lady  Cecil  itarted  up,  stung  beyond  all  endurance  by  tlic  lait 
irords. 

"Again  Redmond  O'Donnell!  Papa,  this  is  not  to  be  en- 
dured even  from  you.  You  insult  me,  you  slander  him.  It 
was  you  who  brought  him  here.  Why  did  you  do  it  ?  He 
would  never  have  come  of  his  own  free  will — you  insisted  upon 
it.  And  since  he  has  been  here,  has  he  given  you  any  ground 
for  your  suspicions  ?  Has  he  paid  me  the  slightest  attention 
beyond  the  most  formal  cour'esy  of  a  gentleman  to  a  lady  ? 
Have  you  ever  seen  us  together  ? — has  he  been  half  a  quarter 
as  attentive  as  Major  Frankland,  or  the  rector's  son  ?  Leave 
Captain  O'Donnell's  name  out  of  the  discussion.  Believe  me 
if  all  your  fears  were  as  groundless  as  your  fe;  s  of  him,  youi 
mind  would  be  easily  set  at  rest.  He  treats  me  with  a  civil  in- 
difference that  is  as  untiattering  as  it  is  sincere." 

She  turned  abruptly  to  leave  him,  a  bitterness  in  her  voice 
she  hardly  strove  to  conceal,  a  passion  in  her  eyes  rarely  seen 
there. 

"  Have  you  anything  more  to  say  ? "  she  asked  abruptly ; 
"it  is  turning  chilly,  and  I  am  cold."  She  shivered  as  she 
spoke,  and  her  fair  face  looked  quite  colorless  in  the  fading 
light.  "  Do  as  you  will.  It  is  useless  to  resist  fate.  If  I 
must  marry  Sir  Arthur — I  must.  But  if  Miss  Herncastle  be  aa 
adventuress,  I  wonder  what  I  am  ? " 

She  pushed  aside  the  rich  curtains  of  silk  and  lace,  and 
St3pi>ed  into  the  drawing-room.  The  lamps  filled  the  long 
Apartment  with  golden  mellow  light,  and  Sir  Arthur  sat  at  f»ie 
governess'  side.  Squire  Talbot  had  called,  and  he  was  enter- 
taining Miss  O'Donnell.  Her  brother  was  not  present;  fof 
that,  at  least,  I^ady  Cecil  was  grateful. 

Lady  Cecil  took  the  vacant  place  at  the  piano.  Her  father 
following  her  in,  crossed  without  compunction  to  the  pair  io 
the  window  recess,  the  lady  embroidering  still,  the  gentleman 
matching  the  clear-cut  profile  as  it  bent  over  the  work,  the  long, 
ivhite,  swift  fingers,  and  neither  talking  much. 

"  How  hard  you  work,  Miss  F*»«"'^''^«*le  1"  his  lordship 


J«4 


THE  STORY  OF    THf   rvoXY  MltflATVUB. 


\ 


.'    ,' 


«!    ) 


'I  I 


A    1i: 


1'^ 


if 


bUndly ;  you  put  us  idle  people  to  shan  ct.  Is  Sir  Arthur  tak 
ing  lessoiis  in  nee  die- work  P  I  hope  you  find  him  an  apt  pupil^ 
my  dear  young  lady  ?  " 

Sir  Arthur  colored,  ])artly  with  annoyance,  partly  with  a 
sense  of  compunction.  Latterly  it  had  begun  to  dawn  upott 
him  t>Aat  his  mission  to  Scarswood  had  not  been  fulfilled — tbaif 
he  had  not  asked  Lady  Cecil  Clive  to  be  his  wife.  And  it 
part  he  stood  committed  to  her.  She  must  know  what  had 
brought  him  down  ;  she  must  know  what  had  been  on  his  lipf 
flrhen  Miss  Herncastle  entered  the  boudoir.  And  Miss  Hem- 
castle  !  in  some  way  he  stood  committed  here,  too.  She  at- 
tracted him  as  no  woman  had  ever  done  before  in  his  life,  and 
he  had  made  no  secret  of  that  attraction.  To  keep  faith  with 
one,  he  must  in  a  way  break  it  to  the  other.  I^ike  that  gal- 
lant knight  of  the  Laureate's  story,  "  his  honor  rooted  in  dis- 
honor stood."  And  this  evening  he  was  realizing  it  for  thfl 
nrst  time. 

Miss  Herncastle  smiled,  perfectly  unembarrassed,  and  reached 
over  for  the  dainty  little  basket  that  held  her  flosses  and  laces. 
Either  by  accident  or  design,  the  earl  never  knew  which,  the 
little  basket  upset,  and  flosses  and  laces  fell  in  a  shining  heap 
at  the  earl's  feet.  Something  else  fell,  too — a  square,  hard 
substance  that  flashed  in  the  gaslight.  Sir  Arthur  picked  up 
the  basket  and  fancy  work,  his  lordship  the  stiuire  substance. 
What  was  it  ?  A  portrait — an  old-fashioned  ivory  miniature, 
beautifully  painted  and  set  in  a  jeweled  frame.  His  eyes  fell 
upon  it,  and  a  sudden  stillness  of  great  suq)rise  came  over  him 
from  head  to  foot ;  ehen  he  turned  round  and  looked  Miss 
Herncastle  full  in  the  face. 

She  met  his  gaze  with  calm  composure,  and  reached  out  hci 
Hand. 

"  My  favorite  souvenir,"  she  said.  "  1  hope  it  is  not  injuied 
'*How  stupid  of  me  to  upset  the  basket.     Thanks,  my  lord." 

But  my  lord  still  held  the  ivory  miniature,  still  looked  A< 
M-iss  Herncastle. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  in  an  altered  voice ;  "  if 
founds  rather  impertinent,  tnit  I  must  ask  where  you  got  this." 

Miss  Herncastle  looked  suqmsed. 

"That  I  that  pictme,  my  lord?  Oh  !  *  tncreby  hangs  a  tale.' 
Do  you  know  who  it  is  ?  " 

"  Miss  Herncastle,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  and  I  have  the  greatest  curiosity  on  the  sublet.  Tha: 
picture  came  into  my  possession  in  the  most  accfdentaS  manner, 


Tti£   SrOAV   JF    IHE    IVOKV    StlS'I  AT  URR.        jftj 


% 


.^  .   ti 


w 


it  this;' 


a  tale. 


I 


for  the  past  six  years  I  )iave  been  \xy\n^  lo  discovei  itf 
owner,  but  as  yet  I  have  not  succeeded.  Her  name  was  Mib. 
Vavasor." 

"Mrs.  Vavasor !  I  kncv  more  th.i.i  one  Ni-s,  Vavasor,  Wt 
•one  of  them  in  the  least  likely  to  possess  this  ]»icture." 

"You  know  the  original  of  that  jiicture,  then,,  my  lord?" 

"  Undoubtedly,  Miss  Hernc.istle.  The  ori^^ipal  of  this  picture 
b  Major  Lionel  Cardonnell,  tny  late  wife's  only  brother,  al 
M'esent  in  Quebec.  May  I,  in  turn,  incjuire  who  was  Mrs. 
Vawi.*ior,  and  how  sh';  came  (o  be  possessed  of  this?" 

He  was  watching  her  —vague,  strange  suspicions  afloat  in 
his  mind.  From  first  to  last  she  was  a  strange,  mysterious  creat- 
are,  this  governess  :  an  air  .if  mystery  appeared  to  enshroud 
fter ;  her  possession  of  his  brolhcr-in-law's  picture  seemed  to 
cap  the  climax. 

Miss  Herncastle  met  his  suspicious  gaze  with  the  calm  of 
conscious  rectitude. 

"Two  questions,  my  lord,  which,  mifojtunately,  \  am  inra]>a- 
t)le  of  answering.  Six  years  ago  1  gave  nmsic  lessons  in  the 
family  of  a  mercantile  gentleman — his  name  was  Jones,  ancj 
ne  has  since  emigrated  to  Australia  with  his  family  ;  and  visiting 
that  family  I  met  Mrs.  Vavasor.  We  became  very  friendly, 
not  to  the  point  of  intimacy,  though,  and  one  day,  noon  my 
leaving  the  house,  she  gave  me  this  portrait,  and  asked  me  to 
take  it  to  a  jeweler's  to  have  one  of  the  stones  replaced  in 
the  case.  She  was  suffering  from  headache  herself  she  said, 
and  dare  not  venture  out,  and  servants  were  too  careiess  to  be 
trusted.  She  told  me,  laughingly,  that  it  was  the  portrait  of  an 
old  lover  of  hern.  I  took  it,  and  for  four  days  again  did  not 
visit  the  family.  Wlien  I  returned  I  discovered  Mrs.  Vavasoi 
had  suddenly  gone  way ;  they  had  discovered  something 
concerning  her  not  to  her  credit — had  quarreled  and  parted, 
fh*?  had  gone  to  France,  they  said,  and  refused  to  have 
jnyihing  to  do  with  her  property.  Under  these  circumstances 
(  kept  the  picture  until  she  should  send  for  it.  She  never  did 
•end  for  it,  and  1  have  never  met  her  since.  1  never  heard  the 
name  of  the  gentleuM'i  whose  likeness  it  is  until  to-day." 

She  threaded  her  needle,  andplacidly  went  on  with  her  work. 
The  earl  listened  in  profound  silence.  It  sounded  plausible 
enough,  and  yet  he  did  not  believe  her.  But  then,  he  was  prej- 
idi'''*'^  against  Miss  Herncastle.  He  handed  it  back  to  hei 
Ziid  arose. 

"  Whftt  "vaa  your  Mrs   Vav»scr  like.  Miss  HfTncwtle?" 


386       THE  STORY  OP  THh  IVORY  MJMATUMM, 


\  ':^ 


■}  I 


I  If;. 


fill  i!  i 


3  '': 


1 11=^^ 


ii' 


^i    'I'i 


*'  She  was  a  little,  dark  woman  of  French  extraction,  I  be 
Keve,  in  spite  of  her  English  name,  with  black  eyes  and  hair^ 
and  an  incessant  smile.  A.s  a  rule,  people  called  her  very  p^  Hty 
Her  first  name  was  Harriet.^ 

"Harriet?  Yes — I  see— I  see  It  was  Harriet  Lelachew^ 
to  a  dead  certainty — Mrs.  Harman,  rather,  under  an  alias,  i 
tliCMight  so  from  the  first.     I  thougnt  her  dead  years  ago." 

He  sauntered  away.  Sir  Arthur  in  turn  took  the  ivory  wiu 
kture  and  gazed  at  it. 

"  Did  you  know  Major  Cardonnell,  Sir  Arthur  ?  But  1  sup 
pose  you  must  have  been  too  young." 

"  No,  I  never  saw  Lionel  Cardonnell,"  the  baronet  said  >  *'l 
keard  the  story  often,  though.  Very  handsome  face,  is  it  not  7 
— much  handsomer  than  that  of  the  late  Countess  of  Ruysland,, 
and  yet  like  her,  too." 

"  You  knew  the  countess  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  The  Countess  of  Ruysland  died  before  hei 
daughter  was  a  week  old,  bu^  I  have  often  seen  her  picture. 
Lady  Cecil  wears  one,  and  there  is  a  large  painting  at  Clive 
Court." 

"  Does  Lady  Cecil  resemble  her  mother  ?  If  so,  her  mother 
must  certainly  have  been  very  beautiful." 

"  She  does  not  in  the  least  resemble  her  mother — her  father, 
tither,  as  you  may  see — nor  any  relative  of  the  Clive  or  Car- 
donnell families.  Miss  Hemcastle,  will  you  think  it  strange  il 
[  tell  yoM— you  resemble  at  times,  in  the  most  singular  man- 
ner, Lady  Ruysland  ?  " 

"  Impossible,  Sir  Arthur  I " 

"  It  is  peifectly  true.  His  lordship  saw  the  resemblance  the 
first  evening  he  met  you — Lady  Cec'i  has  spoken  often  of  the 
singular  familiarity  of  your  face.  J  did  not  remark  it  to  hei, 
but  I  know  it  is  your  resemblar:.c  co  her  mother.  Something 
in  the  expression  something  in  the  poise  of  the  head  and  the 
cokx  of  the  eyes,  are  precisely  the  same  as  in  her  ladyship's 
portraita  You  are  much  more  like  the  late  Lady  Ruysland 
ttian  her  own  daughter." 

Her  self-command  was  wonderful,  but  the  filiny-weo  Ow 
flossy  lace  dropped  suddenly  in  her  lap,  and  her  face  turned 
fix>m  him  to  the  purple  twilight,  tvhere  the  odorous  roses  slept, 
and  the  tall  arum  lilies  hung  their  snowy  heads.  It  was  a 
minute  before  she  could  trust  herself  to  speak.  Then  her  soft, 
musical  laugh  chimed  on  the  «t{ilness,  her  smiling  face  turned 
t9  him  once  nuve. 


THE  STORY  OP   THE  IVORY  MINIATURE.       387 


Kbe 

hew, 

s.     i 

I  rap 

:  not? 
sland, 


tre  hei 

icture. 
tCUve 

[nother 

father, 
DF  Car- 
ange  U 
man- 


ice  the 

of  the 
to  hei, 
lething 
ndthe 
yship'a 
lysland 

WCO    Ow 

turned 
IS  slept, 

was  a 
ler  foft, 

turned 


•♦Another  unao  ountabic  reseml,  lance,"  she  said.  "Really, 
Sir  Arthur,  I  begin  to  think  I  must  be  a  most  abnormal  sort  of 
a  person.  I  startle  poor,  nervous  Sir  Peter  by  my  real  of 
finncied  resemblance  to  a  young  lady  relative  of  his  dead  and 
gone,  1  startle  the  earl  by  my  resemblance  to  his  late  wi'c;  1 
ironder  now  whose  double  1  shall  find  myself  next  ?  " 

"  It  is  odd,"  Sir  Arthur  answered,  looking  at  her  gravely. 
■■*Your  resemblance  to  the  late  Miss  Katherine  Dangerfield 
■lust  be  very  striking  indeed.  Mr.  Talbot,  of  Morecambe, 
is  almost  as  much  impressed  by  it  as  Sir  Peter.  Your  likeneM 
to  Lady  Ruysland's  portrait  is  only  seen  at  times,  and  then  not 
very  strongly.     Still  it  is  there." 

"And  this  handsome  young  officer  is  Lady  Ruysland's 
brother.  I  have  puzzled  myself  a  thousand  times  trying  to 
imagine  who  it  could  be,  so  it  is  satisfactory  to  know  even  fh4U 
much.  But  will  you  think  me  impertinently  curious.  Sir 
Arthur,  if  I  should  ask  to  know  even  more?  There  are 
reasons,  not  easily  to  be  explained,  connected  with  Mrs.  Vava- 
sor, that  make  me  extremely  desirous  to  know  all  I  cau  of  her 
antecedents.  Was  this  gentleman  — so  greatly  above  her  in  rank 
as  he  must  have  been — really  her  lover  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Vavasor  ?  But  you  forget,  Miss  Hemcastle,  I  do  not 
know  your  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Lionel  Cardonnell  has  not  set  foot 
in  England  for  over  five  and-twenty  years.  He  has  been 
stationed  at  every  miHtary  depot  in  the  Canadas,  the  Prov 
inces,  and  Bermuda.  At  present  he  is  in  Quebec.  Your  Mrs. 
Vavasor  may  have  known  him  out  there." 

"  No,"  Miss  Herncastle  replied,  "  I  fancy  not.  She  kne?i 
him  in  England,  and  very  long  ago.  Her  maiden  name  wan 
Harriet  Lelacheur." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Sir  Arthur,  a  new  light  of  intelligence  breaking 
over  him.  "  Harriet  Lelacheur.  Then  it  is  quite  clear,  <3 
course.  And  you  knew  Mrs.  Harman,  did  you,  Miss  Her*- 
castle  ?  " 

"  I  have  met  her.  She  called  herself  Mrs  Vavasor,  diou^ 
an  alias,  possibly." 

"  Or  possibly  she  married  again  after  Hanrian's  death.  Wellj 
Miss  Herncastle,  she  told  you  the  truth  coocernmg  Cardonnell 
—he  was  her  lover." 

"  And  would  have  been  her  husban-i  if  he  could — ^is  that 
"^-ae  also,  Sir  Arthur  ? '' 

•  Perfectly  true,  I  believe." 

:« l^dy  RuvsUttI     hsf  <?'st -r  -**^r:ifd  Hrr  off  to  some  loiwlf 


•■' "  i 


8M 


THK  sTonr  ijf  inr.  . ,  oitr  .hijviatuub. 


!   ?  ; 


phfcoe  on  tli<'  Corniwh  coast,  utitl  iri»i)rit-<)in;(l  hcT  thvrft, 
while  ho  exchanged  into  a  regiment  oKh'nd  tu  Cutiaiiu,'* 
parsued  Mist)  Ilerncastle. 

**  Again,  ^uitu  trne.  I  see  hIic  hus  been  uiukiug  v-.;  h'ji 
confidante.  He  is  married  there — to  a  Ti*  juli  (Jiiniulian, 
I  believe,  of  wealth,  and  beuuty,  and  nodoiilit  laii^h.s  wher 
he  recalln  his  first pjwsion  for  his  fjist(M's/(f'//?//^(^  decJuimhrc, 
and  congratulates  iiimself  upon  iiis  narn>w  e^eapf.  Still, 
if  one  may  venture  to  expres.^  an  opinion,  it  can  hardly  be 
called  a  savy  creditable  act  on  the  part  of  the  late  count 
ess." 

*•  What  1"  the  governess  cried,  **to  save  her  brother 
from  a  designing  adventuress — ruining  his  life  by  a  mar- 
riage with  such  a  woman  as  that  f" 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  and  a  little,  perhai)S,  in 
dis]deasure. 

**  A  designing  adventuress  ?  But  she  was  not  a  design- 
ing adventuress  in  those  duys.  She  was  beneatli  him  in 
rank,  certainly,  but  they  loved  each  other  very  sincerely. 
May  a  man  not  stoop  soiuetimes  to  raise  the  woman  of  his 
choice  to  his  own  social  level,  and  yet  bo  both  jierlVctly 
hap])y  ?" 

This  was  trading  on  delicate  ground.  ITis  eyes  bright- 
ened as  he  spoke.  Miss  Ilerncastle  picked  up  her  work, 
took  another  needlefull  of  floss,  and  went  calmly  on. 

"  Certainly,  if  the  woman  of  his  choice  be  a  lady,  liut 
that  Harriet  Lelacheur  could  never  have  been,  l^'rom  my 
experience  of  her  she  must  always  have  been  uiiikrhred, 
selfish,  coarse,  and  wicked.  These  qualities  may  not  iiave 
shown  in  the  happy  days  of  her  youth — a  lover's  blind 
eyes  may  not  have  seen  them  ;  believe  nui,  though,  they 
were  always  there.  It  was  a  fortunate  escape  for  Major 
Cardoanel  ;  he  has  reason  to  congratulate  himself,  and 
thank  his  sister's  clever  strategy.  By  the  way,  though 
Lady  Kuysland  and  her  ex-waiting-maid  must  hu^e 
become  reconciled  afterward,  from  what  I  heard  the  latter 
say." 

She  was  working  industriously  once  more.  The  Cornish 
Haronet  was  watching  her. 

*  xhey  did.  My  lady,  by  way  of  recompense,  dowered 
her  w>uting-maid,  and  married  her  to  a  tradesman  of  the 
place ;  his  name  was  Uarman.     Ho  died  before  the  Urst 


r    thorft, 

y-iii  h'ji 
iniwlian, 
;hs  wlier 
Juimhrc, 

;.       Still, 

.irdly  bt' 
lo  count- 
brother 
y  a  mrtr- 

l)ii[)S,   Id 

k  dcsi<;n- 
I  him  it) 
iiuuTt'ly. 
U)  of  his 
j>eri't'i'liy 

8  hright- 
icr  work, 

ly.  But 
Krom  my 
Rk'rl)i"i'(l, 
uoc  have 
r's  blind 
igh,  they 
or  Major 
sulf,  and 
, though 
List  hu^e 
.he  latter 

e  Cornish 

,  dowered 
iu  of  the 

J  the  <irHt 


raE  STORY  OF    THR  IVORY  MINUTUUL 


3S9 


('ear  of  his  married  life  hwJ  expired,  leaving  his  yi.  ing  wif<r  aoj 
a  babe  cf  a  fortnight  old.  Of  course,  of  all  this  I  know  nothii]| 
persoadly ;  I  have  heard  my  poor  father,  though,  and  Lord 
Ruysland  speak  of  it  so  often  that  it  seems  familiar  to  me  as  i 
household  word." 

'*  And  Lady  Ruyslard  came  to  the  aid  of  her  strvant  agmiiit 
I  suppose,  in  her  hour  of  widowhood  s^d  adversity.  She  wm 
ttoble  in  that,  at  least." 

''She  was  noble  in  all  things,"  Sir  Arthur  answered ;  ''it  wai 
a  loyal  and  generous  nature,  but  with  a  passionate  pride,  a 
fiery  temper,  a  latent  jealousy  and  recklessness  that  have 
wiecked  many  a  noble  nature  before.  It  is  not  a  pleasant 
4tory,  Miss  Herncastle,  but  at  least  it  is  no  secret.  She  flew  to 
her  humble  friend,  not  to  succor,  but/<7r  shelter." 

"  For  shelter,"  Miss  Herncastle  repeated,  looking  at  hiiu 
8te5>,dily ;  "  and  died  in  her  arms." 

"  Ah  I  you  know  the  story.  Yes,  in  that  humble  cott^e, 
with  only  her  old  servant  by  her  side,  poor,  passionate,  erring 
Lady  Ruysland  died.  She  was  insanely  jealous — who  is  to  teU 
whether  with  or  without  cause  ? — of  one  who  had  been  hei 
rival  years  before,  younger,  fairer  than  herself^  as  highly  bom, 
but  poor.  His  lordship  was  absent,  in  Italy — rumor  said,  to 
be  near  her.  Very  likely  rumor  erred,  as  it  usually  does  ;  at 
least  hei  ladyship  believed  it,  and  on  the  night  of  the  earl's  re- 
turn a  violent  scene  ensued.  He  left  her  m  high  anger ; 
bitter  words  had  passed ;  and  in  the  frenzy  of  her  rage  and 
jealousy  she  fled.  Next  morning  she  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  All  day  they  looked  for  her  in  vain.  At  nightfall  f 
vQessenger  came  to  Clive  Court  from  Mr?  Harman,  summoc 
tug  his  lordship.  A  daughter  had  been  bom,  a  wife  wiLs 
dead." 

Once  more  the  embroidery  dropped  in  \iLVaA  Herncastle' a 
lap.  Her  eyes  were  dilated,  fixed  on  his  face ;  her  lips  were 
bneathlest  and  apart  in  the  intensity  of  her  interest. 

"They  brought  the  poor  dead  lady  honoe,  the  child  they  left 
with  Mrs.  Hamian  to  nurse.  Whether  or  no  I  /Ord  Ruyslartd 
leally  had  or  had  not  wronged  his  wife,  no  one  will  ever  know 
now.  Her  death  was  a  terrible  blow  to  him — for  a  time.'' 
The  speaker  paused  a  second,  glanced  across  at  his  lordship' g 
•erenely  high-bred,  placid  countenance,  and  smiled.  "  For  a 
time.  We  lose  our  nearest  and  dearest,  and  the  world  j,;uc« 
round  much  the  sam«  as  ever,  and  we  with  it,  and  we  r^at, 
dbilik,  and  are  merry,  and — forget.     Clive  Court  was  ahur  up^ 


''^ 


11    s! 


11. 1 


f'  I 


!M 


t-h  I 


I 


ijo 


rMM  STOMY  6P   TMM  rVOKY  MilNtATVUL, 


Mv\.  H4rrran  wat  handtomelf  %iensone<l,  and  lit  babyt  I^uiy 

Cecil,  left  with  her. 

Foi  two  yeari  lA)rd  Ruysland  wan  absent ;  then  a  letter  frva 
Mrs.  Harman  recalled  him.  She  was  of  French  eatractiMki 
and  had  taken  a  sudden  fancy  to  visit  her  relations  in  Parit"  - 
wotild  liis  lordship  come  and  take  his  little  daughter  and  let 
tier  go.  He  retimed  to  England,  received  Lady  Cecil  Ciou 
her  hands,  placed  her  with  gome  relatives  in  a  remote  part  ol 
England  to  grow  up,  a<ad  returned  to  his  wandering  life.  Mrs. 
Harman  left  England  with  her  daughter,  and  I  fancy  the  earl 
never  heard  of  her  from  that  day  ^o  this,  until  he  chanced  to 
•ee  his  brother-in-law's  picture  a  few  moments  ago.  Mist 
Hemcastk,  Lady  Cecil  has  left  the  piano  ;  after  all  this  talking 
will  you  not  reward  me  by  a  little  of  your  matchless  matk  ?  " 

She  arose  at  once  and  went  with  him  to  the  piano.  For 
orarly  an  hour  she  sat  playing  bravely  and  brilliantly,  he 
Mated  near,  his  face  in  shadow,  his  ears  drinking  in  those 
svreetest  strains.  Then  she  gol  up,  and  for  the  first  time  io 
bis  experience  of  her,  hold  out  her  liand  as  she  said  good-night 

"  You  have  done  mc  a  great  favor  to-night,  Sir  ^^thur,"  she 
isid ;  '*  greater  than  you  know.  Let  me  thank  you,  and — 
giK)d-night." 

He  looked  up  at  her  in  surprise.  "  A  great  favor,"  he  re- 
peated, holding  her  firm,  cold  hand  in  his  clasp ;  '^  I  don't  mi> 
drrstand,  Miss  Herncastle." 

She  smiled — a  strange  exultant  sort  of  smile — looking  not  at 
him,  but  across  the  room,  at  the  figures  of  the  Earl  of  Ruysland^ 
the  Lady  Cecil  Clive.  Long  after  he  had  reason  to  know  what 
fhe  strange  and  triumphant  smile  meant. 

"  You  may  understand  .«/jnie  day,  Sir  Arthur,  and  sooner  thao 
jrou  think.     Once  mor?.  t^ood-night." 

With  the  words  she  was  gone.  He  watched  the  tall,  com- 
manding figure  as  it  swept  across  the  room  and  disappeared. 
Other  eyes  had  witnessed  that  farewell ;  the  Earl  of  Ruysland 
set  his  lips,  the  delicate  waxen  cheek  %{  Lady  Cecil  flushed. 

"There  shall  be  an  end  of  this,"  his  lordship  thought  sternly. 
**  You  have  gone  the  length  of  your  tether,  Sir  Arthur  Tr*» 
genna ;  it  is  high  time  to  pull  you  up." 

Miss  Herncastle  went  up  to  her  room,  but  not  to  bed.  Shd 
sat  down  by  the  open  window,  a  starry  light  in  her  eyes,  almost 
a  flush  of  color  on  her  marble  face. 

"  At  last !  at  last!  at  last  I "  her  lips  said. 

She  was  smiling — a  smile  not  %oo>^  to  see.     Her  e^es  wvft 


:lii;l 


TfTE  SCAM   ON   THE    :  .\MPT.K 


39« 


fixe^  OL  thb  Mght  prospect,  bat  ^e  saw  nothing.  So,  for  Uj^ 
ward  of  i^\  huur,  she  sat.  .She  could  hcuj  li^e  sonnds  frotiS 
beloTT,  the  music,  the  soft  hum  of  vol.  cs,  ihe  low  laughter. 
She  coulil  near,  but  she  hardly  sevnied  to  listf'i.  She  n'jj 
^vrippcd  in  herself;  that  glowing,  »*xulting  f;»cc,  yovi  would  nOt 
have  kn.)wr  it  again. 

'^At  last!  at  last!'  she  kept  i^oftly  repeating,  "my  houe 
'.•4.S  r.tmie." 

She  arose  after  a  time.  F.ven  throngh  her  :ibsor})tion  icho 
feWing  dew  struck  chill.  She  .irosc,  closed  thr.  window  ar.fll 
the  curtains,  lit  the  Umj),  and  tluiig  the  ivory  miniature  cotv 
teinptuoa.sly  across  into  an  open  trunk. 

"Lie  th«'re,"  she  said  ;  -you  have  (\<j\\ti  your  work.  I  wan* 
';(>u  no  more.  I  have  wail  *  six  years — a  long  time ;  but 
/rven  Troy  fell  at  last  I  h;iv^«  heard  al)  \  wap*iW  tt*  hear.  I 
fftt  my  way  clear  to  the  end  now  I " 


II 


n 


she 


CHAPTER    XVIL 


THJK    SCAJt    ON   THE    rXMLTLE. 


'iress.' 


TELL  you,  madam,  you  shall  not  go  I  " 

"And  I  tell  you,  sir,  I  shall T' 

"  Lady  Dangeil^eld,  i  repeat  it,  you  shall  never  g« 
to  that  disrepuiabie  woiitan's  house  in  that  disgusung 


"Sir  Peter  Dangcrfield,  /repeat  it,  £.s  sure  as  the  night  aftoi 
20-morrow  night  conies,  I  will  go  to  Mrs.  Evcrleigh's  masquer* 
»>de  in  the  costume  of  a  page." 

And  then  husband  and  vv^ife  stood  still,  ai\d  paused  for  breatlv, 
«.iid  glared  at  each  other,  as  nnich  more  devoted  husbands  ux': 
*aves  will  do  at  times  in  the  marital  relation,  I  ara  told. 

it  was  three  dayb  after  Sir  Peter's  attack,  and  for  two  days 
t'ic  little  b&ronet  had  been  sufticiently  recovered  to  enliven  the 
draning-room  v/ith  tho  brightness  of  his  presence.  All  at  once 
the  sobtude  of  his  study  had  become  unbearablt  to  hira  ;  \i\% 
bugs  and  beetles,  his  bees  and  butterflies  afforded  him  no  con- 
solation. Lights,  IL^e,  human  faces,  human  voices,  he  craved 
<iaein  day  andnight,     And  so  it  came  about,  in  the  first  tim-?  d 


I 


190 


THE  SCAk   ON  TUH    rEMFLE. 


m^ 


Kit 


i  ^i  II 


t  I 


!  ^ ' 


m\ 


%  I 


•!it  i! 


Lady  Dangeriield's  experience  of  hiin,  hv  husband  tAX  notnmA 
else  to  do  but  watch  her  and  grow  jealous.  Horribly  and 
ferociously  jealous.  He  didn't  care  a  pin's  point  in  the  way  of 
love  for  his  wife,  but  she  was  his  wife,  and  as  long  as  a  lady  is 
that,  the  gentleman  whose  name  she  honors  has  legal  right  cct 
tainly  to  most  of  her  tender  looks,  whispered  sentences,  twi- 
light walks,  etc.,  etc.  And  Sir  Peter  got  none  of  these,  and 
Major  Frankland  got  a  great  many.  In  reality,  in  her  heart  of 
hearts,  if  my  lady  possessed  such  an  inmost  sanctuary,  she 
really  cared  as  much  for  one  as  the  other.  A  fine  fortune,  a 
fine  establishment,  fine  dresses,  superfine  dinners — these  were 
the  things  my  lady  loved,  above  husband,  child,  or  lover.  But 
all  these  things  she  had,  and  Major  Frankland  was  very  good- 
ooking,  could  Hatter  ceaselessly,  knew  the  art  of  love  h  la 
mode  to  perfection,  and  was  s<try  willing  to  pay  in  tender 
glances,  dreamy  t^te^-tetes,  whispered  nothings,  foi  the  ex- 
cellent Scarsuvood  dinners,  wines,  horses,  billiards,  am!  the  rest 
of  it  And  to  do  him  justice,  he  did  not  know  Sir  Peter  was 
jealous  ;  he  meant  no  harm,  only  *'  this  sort  of  thing  "  helped 
make  the  long  summer  days  pass  ;  and  if  my  lady  liked  to 
flirt,  and  Sir  Peter  did  not  object,  why  shouldn't  hi  show  his 
gratitude  and  become  flirtee  as  well  as  any  other  man  ?  In  a 
round  dance  my  lady's  step  suited  bim,  their  intellects  were  on 
an  average,  they  knew  the  same  people,  liked  to  talk  of  the 
same  things,  both  were  well  looking,  unexceptionable  of  dresa 
and  style — that  is  what  it  came  to,  and  where  was  the  harm  ? 
Major  Frankland  did  not  think  of  this — Major  Frankland 
never  thought  at  all  if  he  could  help  himself.  But  that  was  the 
•urn  total  of  his  and  my  lady's  platonic  friendship. 

In  I  vague,  hazy  sort  of  way,  Sir  Peter  had  long  been  a 
thronic  vicv'^  to  a  mild  fonn  of  the  green-eyed  monster.  All 
4i  once  in  these  two  days  the  mild,  harmless  symptoms  became 
furiously  aggravated,  and  the  little  baronet  turned  rampantly 
ve?Joas.  He  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  watch  his  wife,  and 
ler  Attendant  cavalier,  and  he  did  watch  them.  He  lost  hi 
fear  of  ghosts,  his  interest  in  Miss  Herncastle  almost,  in  this 
Biiw  phase  of  things.  He  sat  in  a  corner  with  a  big  book,  and 
g[lftwered  vengefully  over  the  top  of  it  at  the  placid  face  of  the 
r>ajor  and  the  vivacious  face  of  his  wife. 

Mis.   Everleigh's   fancy   dress   party  brougnt  matters  to  % 

Mrs.  Everlcigh  was  an  exceedingly  charming  lady,  of  whon< 
C&^*5efrMd  kn^w  vf*ry  little  indeed,  exce]>t  ihat  she  was  ^xces 


■fiHg,   S^AK    UA^    fiaa    iAMi'LR, 


591 


,oyiM 


lively  rich,  very  fond  of  spenair.g  uer  muncy,  ami  ctij 
herself,  and — a  divorcet]  wife.  ^Vllere  Mr.  I'vcri -'gh  was,  a:id 
why  he  had  put  away  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  a  g^^eat  many 
asked  and  nobody  answered.  Mrs.  Everloigh  herself  put  her 
perfumed  mouchoir  to  he.  blue  eyes  when  tne  harrowiiig  auLject 
was  alluded  to — called  Mr.  Everleigh  a  brute  and  liersclf  4 
siiartyr,  and  left  things  in  their  general  misty  and  uncomfortabij 
stat«^  of  doubt.  But  she  dressed  elegantly,  lived  luxurious!; ; 
gave  th-  most  brilliant  receptions  far  or  near.  The  more  fft'i 
tidious  ladies  of  the  neighborhood,  Lady  Cecil  among  then^ 
fought  shy  of  the  charming  Mrs.  Everleigh.  Lady  Dangerneld 
and  she  became  bosom  friends  at  once.  And  this  week  Mrs. 
Everleigh's  masquerade  came  off — the  only  thing  of  its  kind 
that  had  been  dreamed  of — and  my  lady  and  the  major  were 
going.  The  major  as  the  "Chief  of  Lara,"  gloomy  and  splen- 
did, and  misanthropical,  in  black  velvet  and  plumes,  hke  a 
mute  at  a  funeral,  and  my  lady  was  going  as  Kaled,  Lara's 
page — the  devoted,  the  adoring  Kaled.  By  the  merest  chance, 
for  my  lady  never  annoyed  her  nervous  husband  with  these 
foolish  trifles,  he  had  discovered  the  ball,  the  costume,  every- 
thing that  he  would  have  been  much  better  off  without  know 
ing,  and  his  brimming  cup  flowed  over  !  He  flew  into  a  pas- 
sion ;  his  wizen  little  face  turned  purple  with  rage  ;  he  abso- 
lutely swore ;  he  stamped  his  small  foot,  and  screeched  forth  In 
pasMonate  falsetto,  that  my  lady  should  not  go. 

"  And  I  tell  you  I  shall  I "  my  lady  retorted,  also  flying  into 
a  towering  passion,  and  using  none  too  ladyli)  e  language  in 
her  sudden  fit  of  rage.  "  Don't  make  a  greater  fool  of  your- 
self. Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  than  nature  has  already  made  you 
It's  no  affair  of  yours.  Attend  to  your  bugs  and  horrid  crawl 
ing  things,  your  ghosts  and  your  gambling.  Oh,  yes,  /  know 
where  you  were  the  night  you  saw  the  ghost  under  the  King^'g 
Oak.  I  don't  interfere  with  your  amusements— be  good  enough 
aot  to  interfere  with  mine." 

She  had  trodden  on  her  worm  so  long  that  she  had  forgotte© 
even  worms  sometimes  turn.  She  had  gone  just  a  step  too  far. 
The  purple  hue  of  rage  left  his  face  ;  it  turned  n  gliaslly  yellow. 
He  folded  his  small  anns  across  his  small  chest,  he  planted  hii 
•mall  feet  resolutely  on  the  carpet,  and  he  stood  and  looked  02 
Wr 

"  You  mean  to  go,  then,  Lady  Dangerfield  ?  " 

**  I  mean  to  go,  as  surely  a<i  yoti  stand  there.  Sir  Petei  Db» 

ir 


H 


\- 


m 


I 


iS 


,1 


ft'' 


y: 


M 


■If'  ' 


;    1 


'i'' 


>94 


f*J»  SC'Ait  ON  THH   AEMPLM,, 


**  In  thii  disgusting  dress  ?  " 

**  You  called  it  disgusting  once  before.  I  don't  iiercei^e  Ihm 
disgusting.  It's  a  beautiful  little  dress,  and  I  expect  to  locA 
lovely  in  it" 

<*  You  mean  to  go  to  this  disreputable  vtroman's  house  ?  " 

"You  said  /A*/ before  also,  Sir  Peter.  Don't  let  Mrs.  Ever*  j 
!fii|^  hear  you,  or  she  mny  bring  action  against  you  for  defame  ^ 
tion  of  character.  Her  husband  was  a  brute,  and  she  had  to 
Irave  him — nothing  very  uncommon  in  tiiat — most  husbands 
ILte.  She  has  her  own  fortune,  and  she  enjoys  herself  in  her 
own  way.  I  suppose  it  is  infamous  for  a  woman  who  has  ever 
had  the  misfortune  to  marry  to  jviesiinie  to  enjoy  herself  after." 

"  You  mean  to  go  to  Mrs.  Everleigh's  masquerade  !  You 
mean  to  go  in  male  attire ! — you,  the  mother  of  two  children  1 
~a  woman  thirty-five  years  of  age !  " 

TT&d/  was  too  much.  Lady  Dangerlield  might  have  endured 
a  great  deal ;  but  this  last  insult — liiis  cold-blooded  mention  of 
her  age — no,  she  could  not  stand  that.  What  right-feeling 
woman,  indeed,  could  ? 

"You  little  wretch  I  '  cried  Sii  Peters  wife;  and  for  a 
moment  the  words,  and  the  tone,  and  the  look,  brought  Kath- 
erine  Dangerfield,  and  the  conservatory,  and  six  years,  back 
VI vidly  before  him.  ♦•  How  dare  you  uise  such  language  as  that 
to  me  ?  If  I  never  meant  to  go  1  should  go  now.  Five-and- 
thirty,  indeed  I  I  deny  it ;  it  is  a  base  falsehood  !  I  shall  not 
be  thirty-one  until  next  birthday.  And  I  shall  go  to  Mrs.  Ever- 
leigh's, and  I  shall  go  as  a  page  ju^.i  as  sure  as  Thursday  night 
comes ! " 

"And  with  Major  Frankland,  (Jinevra?" 

"  With  Major  Frankland — a  gentleman  at  least,  who  does 
not  insult  ladies  to  their  faces  by  odious  falsehoods  about  theii 
age.  Thirty-five,  indeed  !  f  liave  no  more  to  say  to  you,  Sir 
Peter  Dangerfield,  only  this- 1  shall  go  !*' 

"  Very  well,  l.ady  Dangerfield," — he  was  yellower  than  ever 
»-he  was  trembling  with  passion  ;  "  then  hear  me.  If  you  eo 
(tO  Mrs.  Everleigh's  as  page  to  that  man's  knig^\t^  then — remain 
with  Mrs.  Everleigh — doii't  come  back  here.  I  have  endured 
a  good  deal ;  I  ^vaW  not  endure  this.  Go  if  j?<Ki  will ;  I  shall 
•ot  lift  a  finger  to  prevent  you  ;  but — don't  conin?  back.  Scant- 
wood  u  ming  :  the  mistresses  df  Scarswood  b^ve  been  honor- 
able women  always ;  you  shall  not  be  the  first  u^?  dwell  beneath 
fea  roof  and  disgrace  it — that  I  swear  !  " 
^an  once  in  his  lii<e  he  w^in^  eloquent,  (oi  croioe  in  his  life  he 


TMA  SCAA   ON    run    TEMnM, 


S9S 


tolo^ 

5.  Ever«i 
defamak^  ^ 
;  had  to 
jsbands 
f  in  hct 
kas  ever 
r  after." 
!  You 
liildren  1 

endured 
ntion  of 
t-feeling 

i  for  a 
It  Kath- 
rs,  back 
:  as  that 
ive-and- 
;hall  not 
s.  Ever- 
ay  night 


ho  doei 

)ut  thcii 
you,  Sir 

lan  ever 
you  go 
-remain 
endured 
I  shall 
Scarft- 
n  honor- 
beneath 

ilifehe 


va<  difiufaed  He  rose  Tath  the  occasion  ;  in  that  moment  jrov 
irould  alm$st  have  respect ed  him.  He  tur ned  and  left  the  room. 
His  wife  stood  petrified.  Was  she  awake — was  she  asleep  F 
Was  this  Sir  Peter  Dangertield  ?     Coalci  she  believe  her  seniet  I 

There  was  a  second  auditor  to  this  marital  outbreak — an 
vuditor  who  stoo<i  almost  as  surprised  as  my  lady  heiself  If 
ifras  Miss  Hemcastle,  who  had  entered  in  the  foil  tide  of  tlMl 
'tiscussion,  and  had  stood,  not  seeming  to  know  exactly  whethet 
^o  go  back  oi  go  on.     My  lady  turned  and  saw  her  now. 

"  Miss  Hemcastle  I "  ^e  cried,  in  haughty  anger.  "  You — 
and  listening?" 

"  Not  listening,  my  lady,"  Miss  Hemcastle  answered,  meet- 
ing her  angry  eyes  steadily.  **  You  told  me  this  morning  when 
the  doublet  was  completed  to  tell  you,  and  let  you  try  it  on. 
It  is  finished,  and,  obeying  your  orders,  I  came  in  search  of  you 
at  once." 

For  Miss  Hemcastle  had  been  ordered  to  desert  the  school- 
room latterly,  and  turn  seamstress  in  general  to  my  lady  And 
it  was  Miss  Hemcastle  who,  with  boundless  taste  and  good- 
nature, had  suggested  the  two  costumes,  and  produced  a  little 
painting  of  Lara  and  Kaled.  The  major  and  Lady  Dangerfield 
had  both  been  chamied  with  the  idea.  The  major  was  now  up 
in  London  selecting  his  costume,  and  Miss  Hemcastle  had 
ridden  into  town  wiUi  my  lady,  silk  and  velvet,  lace  and  feath- 
ers had  been  purchased,  the  governess  and  my  lady's  maid  had 
since  sewed,  sewed,  sewed  night  and  day.  Miss  Hemcastle 
had  stuh  taste,  such  clever  fingers,  and  was  altogether  a  mira- 
cle of  dexterity  and  cheerfulness.  Lady  Dangerfield' s  raffled 
plumage  smoothed  again. 

^'-  So  I  did.  And  it  is  ready  ?  But  Sir  Peter  objects  so 
strongly — is  so  disagreeable — still  I  must  ran  up  and  see  it" 

A  famt,  derisive  smile  dawned  upon  the  face  of  the  gover- 
tiess,  as  she  stepped  back  to  let  my  lady  pass  her. 

"  And  when  you  do  see  it — trust  me  to  persuade  you  to  weja 
Jt  It  will  be  an  easy  task,  despite  the  counsels  of  a  hundred 
kusbands."  That  was  what  that  slight  chill  smile  said  plainly 
enough,  as  she  followed  my  lady  to  one  of  the  upper  rooms. 

The  dress  lay  s[)read  upon  a  bed — a  shining  vision  of  car 
nine  silk,  white  ostrich  plumes,  gold  braid  and  black  velvet. 
My  lady's  eyes  lit  up  like  black  diamonds,  as  she  Hfted  the 
separate  articles  that  composed  the  costume,  and  held  them 
ap  to  glisten  in  the  sunlight.  Millinery  was  the  one  thing  of  Jt-J 
tL}  igi  earthiyy  tliat  most  cioiiei/  appealed  u>  thi^  womanf  8  souk 


s,  t- 


w  i 


:J| 


m 


"'?ii 


if 


hi 


m 


Mi 


"5' 


if'" 
H'l' 


n 


M 


li: 


I    '! 


. 

i' 

1  ; 

^  !|fe 


*■ 


396 


risur  56.4^  pa^  rjiji  vemflm. 


"  Oh  l~-"  a  long  inspiration.  Miss  llcm»Jistlc,  youi  taiU 
's  perfect — peifect ;  I  never  saw  anything  so  lovely.  And  tti 
I'link  that  preposterous  little  baronet  says  I  shall  not  wear  it. 
*elphine,  take  your  sewing  into  your  own  room — I  am  g<Mn|| 
to  try  this  on."  Exit  Delphine  with  a  curtsey.  My  lady  tinka 
knto  a  chair.  "  Uo  my  hair,  Miss  Herncastle,"  she  says,  iiD> 
patiently  ;  *^  1  shall  try  it  on  at  least." 

Miss  Hemcastle's  deft  fingers  go  to  work.  Embroidery,  oof> 
tume  making,  hair  dressing — nothing  seems  to  come  amisa  t« 
these  deft  white  fingers. 

"  Now,  my  lady.  No,  don't  look  in  the  glass  yet,  please. 
Let  me  dress  you  ;  when  everything  is  on,  then  you  shall  look 
and  see  the  effect." 

And  then  Miss  Hemcastle  set  to  work  in  earnest,  my  lady 
aiding  and  abetting.  She  had  locked  the  door;  profound 
silence,  befitting  the  importance  of  the  moment,  reigned. 
Silken  hose,  buckled  shoes,  little  baggy  silken  unmentionables, 
a  doublet  of  carmine  silk,  all  aglimmer  with  gold  cord  and  lace 
and  sparkling  buttons ;  a  little  black  velvet  cloak,  lined  with 
deep  rose  red,  seeming  but  a  brighter  shade  of  the  carmine, 
clasped  jauntily  a  little  to  one  side,  and  the  one  end  flung  back 
ever  the  shoulder  ;  a  little  black  velvet  beret  or  cap,  set  on  one 
side  the  black  cr^e  hair,  a  long  ostrich  plume  sweeping  over 
the  shoulder  and  fastened  at  the  side  by  a  diamond  aigrette ; 
a  tiny  rapier  set  in  a  jeweled  scabbard — that  was  the  radiant, 
sparkling  vision  my  lady's  glass  showed  her.  In  all  her  life, 
she  had  never  looked  so  nearly  beautiful  as  in  this  boyish  trav- 
esty— in  this  glowing  carmine  silk,  and  lofty  plume,  and  black 
velvet. 

**  Oh  1 "  she  said  no  more — only  that  one  long-drawn  breath. 
She  stood  and  contemplated  the  picture  in  silent  ecstasy. 

"It  is  perfect — it  is  beautiful,"  Miss  Hemcastle  munnuied; 
**  I  never  saw  your  ladyship  look  half  so  well  in  anything  be- 
fwre.     It  will  be  the  costume  of  the  ball." 

"  It  is  lovely — lovely,"  my  lady  responded,  still  staring  in  an 
ecstasy;  "but  Miss  Hemcastle,  I  have  already  told  you  Sif 
Peter  has  taken  it  into  his  imbecile  head  to  object — to  abso- 
lutely forbid.  He  calls  the  dress  disgraceful — nonsense- --and 
Mrs.  Everleigh  disreputable.  And  you  have  no  idea  how  disa 
grt^able  and  how  obstinate  Sir  Peter  Dan^erfiield  can  be  when 
he  likes." 

Miss  Hemcastle  smiled  &gam — *hz!i  slight,  chill,  unpleaaaat 
iraile. 


t 


tu  Usu 
And  t» 
wear  it. 
n  going 
dy  giiikfl 
ay£,  im- 

cry,  cot" 

Euniss  t« 

please, 
all  look 

my  lady 

>rofound 
reigned, 
onables, 
md  lace 
led  with 
:armine, 
ng  back 
t  on  one 
ing  ovci 
igrette ; 
radiant, 
ler  life, 
ish  trav- 
black 

breath. 

muied; 
ling  be- 

ig  in  an 
you  Sir 
to  abso- 
5e---and 
>w  disa 
)e  when 


rkk  &CAk   ON   THE    TEMPLA, 


%W 


**fiKrt  I  not?  But  I  think  I  ha^'e  Men  have  pecali&r 
notions  on  these  subjects,  and  with  a  tnan  like  Sir  Peter,  it  b 
nrach  easier  to  let  him  have  his  way  than  to  do  combat  They 
nerer  yield  an  inch." 

**  Give  way.  That  means  to  give  up  the  idea  of  the  baIl-» 
to  submit  to  be  tyrannized  over — not  to  wear  this  exquisite  dre«: 
Miss  Hemcasde,  do  I  hear  you  aright  ?  " 

**  You  hear,  but  you  do  not  understand.  Of  course  yoa  gci 
to  the  ball — only — ^let  Sir  Peter  think  you  don't.  It  will  M 
May  enough  to  deceive  him.  It  may  involve  a  few  falsehoodsi 
b«t  joxtt  ladyship  will  not  stickle  at  that.  You  go  to  the  ball 
tc  peace — and  he  soes  to  bed  in  peace,  and  what  he  never 
knows  will  never  gneve  him." 

"  But  how  is  it  to  be  done  ?  " 

Miss  Hemcastle  paused  «  moment  in  deep  thought,  her 
brows  knit 

"  In  this  way,"  she  said.  "  Write  to  Major  Frankland  in 
Ix>ndon,  and  tell  him  when  he  returns  to  Castleford,  on 
Thursday  evening,  to  remain  in  Castleford,  at  one  of  the  inns, 
instead  of  coming  to  Scarswood.  It  is  as  much  on  his  account 
as  on  account  of  the  page's  dress  that  Sir  Peter  objects.  You 
can  tell  Sir  Peter,  if  you  choose,  that  you  have  given  up  the 
idea — that  Major  Frankland  has  been  detained  in  town.  lie 
will  not  believe  it,  of  course,  but  when  the  night  arrives  and  he 
does  not  return,  and  he  sees  you  retire  for  the  night  he  wilL 
Once  in  your  room,  you  dress,  of  course  ;  bribe  the  coachman 
to  drive  you  quietly  to  Mrs.  Everleigh's,  and  wait  the  breaking 
up  of  the  ball.  At  Mrs.  Everleigh's  you  meet  the  Major  ;  he 
can  keep  quiet  in  the  town  all  the  follov«ring  day,  and  in  the 
evening  come  here  as  though  direct  from  the  station.  You  will 
have  enjoyed  the  ball,  and  Sir  Peter  be  none  the  wiser." 

My  lady  listened  in  calm  approbation,  undisturbed  by  cod 
tcientious  qualms  of  any  kind. 

"  A  famous  idea,  Miss  Hemcastle,"  she  said,  as  the  govcr- 
•acss  ceased.  "What  a  head  you  have  for  plotting  and  taking 
^ople  in.  One  would  think  you  had  doiie  nothing  else  all 
your  life." 

Miss  Hemcastle  received  this  involuntary  compliment  with 
becoming  modesty,  that  faint,  derisive  smile  creeping  for  a  sec- 
ond or  two  around  her  handsome  mouth.  Hut  she  was  bnsj 
eeanoving  the  page's  attire,  and  my  lady  did  not  see  it 

"If  you  write  to  Major  Frankland  at  once,  my  lady,"  sh* 
latd,  **i  will  take  your  letter  to  the  pnst-officc  myself,  and  he 


H  \ 


i:      '     [ 


w 

if' 

f^   ■ 

m 

p    1 

1. 

rfi. 


:*'■    ? 


\n 


S: 


'!   I 


598 


nu  jrciur  i^^  jTiVA  r&MjRLM, 


viM  get  it  in  tims  to-morrow.  It  will  simply  be  doiug  a  kind 
a««ii  to  Sir  Peter  to  keep  him  in  the  dark  about  the  ball ;  hit 
imaginary  troubles  about  ghosts  are  quite  er.ough  for  him  td 
present" 

She  placed  writing  materials  before  my  lady,  and  my  lady»  ia 
her  spidery  Italian  tracery,  dashed  off  a  page  or  two  to  tha 
major,  apprising  him  of  the  facts,  of  Sir  Peter's  unexpected  difk 
approval  and  Miss  Hemcastle's  clever  plan.  Before  it  was 
ngned  and  sealed,  Miss  Herncastle,  in  hat,  jacket,  and  parasol, 
atood  ready  to  take  it  into  town.  It  would  be  a  long,  hot,  dust^ 
walk,  but  what  sacrifices  will  not  friendship  make?  She  took 
^  letter,  put  it  in  her  pocket,  and  left  the  room  and  the 
house. 

My  lady  watched  her  from  the  window  out  of  sight,  and  some* 
how  a  feeling  of  distrust  and  dislike,  that  had  always  lain  dor- 
mant there  for  Miss  Herncastle,  rose  up  and  warned  her  to  take 
care.  What  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  willingness  to  serve 
and  please  her  ?  She  knew  she  disliked  Miss  Herncastle,  and 
fAie/^lf  that  Miss  Herncastle  disliked  her.  What  if  she  fhould 
betray  her  to  Sir  Peter,  after  all  ?  A  nd  Sir  Peter  had  looked 
so  uncomfortably  in  earnest  when  he  had  made  that  threat : 
"  You  shall  not  be  the  first  to  dwell  beneath  the  roof  of  Scars- 
wood  and  disgrace  it — that  I  swear ! "  A  cold  chill  came  over 
her  for  an  instant  in  the  sultry  summer  air.  What  if  she 
ivent  ?  What  if  Miss  Herncastle  betrayed  her  ?  and  what  if  he 
kept  his  word  ? 

*'  It  would  be  wiser  to  give  it  up,"  she  thought ;  "  he  might 
keep  his  word,  and  then — great  Heaven  !  what  would  become 
of  me  ?  I  wiU  give  it  up."  She  turned,  and  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
dress — the  carmine  silk,  the  diamond  aigrette,  the  doublet,  the 
bftret,  the  rapier — all  her  good  resolutions  faltered  and  failed  at 
the  sight  "  I  awi'/give  it  up,"  she  exclaimed,  setting  her  little 
white  teetn.  "  I'll  go,  and  trust  Miss  Herncastle,  and  deceive 
tfie  jealous,  tyrarjtical  little  monster,  if  I  can.  What  motive 
hu  sb«  for  betraying  me  ?  and  later,  if  he  does  find  it  out  from 
my  other  source,  his  anger  will  have  had  time  to  cool,  I 
would  not  miss  wearing  that  dress,  and  having  Jasper  see  how- 
young  and  pretty  I  look  in  it,  for  a  kingdom.  Thirty-five  yean 
i^ld,  indeed  !  Odious  little  dwarf  1  I'l  go  as  surely  as  I  stand 
iicre. 

Mist  Herncastle  walked  into  town  over  the  dusty  highroad, 
■nder  the  boiling  July  sun,  and  posted  my  lad/&  letter.  Sh« 
cetunicd  weary,  duity,  £uot  2^rc,  ?.s  the  st&ble  clock  was  fitris* 


nkiBA 
lU;  hit 
him  fti 

Lad)r»ui 
to  th« 
ted  tils' 
I  it  was 
parasol, 
►t,  dustj? 
he  took 
md  the 

id  some* 
ain  dor- 
•  to  take 
to  serve 
5tle,  and 
^e  fhould 
I  looked 
t  threat : 
)f  Scars- 
.me  over 
,t  if   kIic 
rhat  if  he 


le  might 
become 
ill  on  the 
.blet,  the 
failed  at 
her  little 
deceive 
It  motive 
out  from 
cool.     I 
see  how 
five  ycara 
.s  I  stand 

highroad, 
ter.  Sha 
wu  fitrifi' 


JiCAK   ON   THE    JAMJ^LB, 


ll^  tish  and  as  she  walked  up  the  avenue,  came  face  to  focf 
witii  ^  Peter  and  Captain  O'Donnell. 

The  little  cowardly  baronet  had  been  seized  with  a  sudden 
and  great  fancy  for  the  tail,  soldierly,  fearless  Irishman.  A 
confidant  of  some  kind  he  must  have.  Frankland  was  out  of 
the  question — Sir  Arthur  he  stood,  like  most  people,  in  awe  <rf 
— the  eart  would  have  listened  suavely  and  sneered  secretly  j 
O'Donnell  therefore  only  remained.  And  O'Donnell  suited 
him  exactly :  he  had  not  a  grain  of  fear  in  his  nature ;  he  had  a 
cool  headi  a  steady  nerve,  and  he  was  intensely  interested  in 
the  whole  afEadr.  O'Donnell  had  taken  it  up,  had  promised  to 
investigate,  did  not  believe  it  was  a  ghost,  and  Sir  Peter 
breathed  again. 

Both  gentlemen  bowed  to  the  pale,  tircd-iooking  governess 
The  baronet  turned  round,  and  looked  datkly  and  suspiciously 
after  her. 

"  Where  has  she  been  now  ?  "  he  asked,  distrustfully.  "  What 
do  all  these  long,  solitary  rambles  mean  ?  Don't  you  see  the 
likeness,  O'Donnell,  to  the  picture  of  Kalherine  Dangerfield? 
You  must  be  blind  if  you  do  not." 

"Oh,  I  see  a  certain  likeness,"  O'Donnell  repeated,  "but 
nothing  so  marked  as  to  be  terrifying.  By  the  bye,  I  was  exam- 
ining the  photograph  with  a  magnifying  glass  and  I  discovered 
a  mark  or  scar  of  some  kind  on  \hc  left  side  of  the  face,  right 
above  the  temple.  Now  had  Katherine  Dangerfield  a  birth- 
mark there,  or  anywhere  else — the  proverbial  strawbeiry  mark 
on  the  arm,  or  mole  on  the  neck,  or  an)  thing  of  that  sort  ?  " 

"  The  nne  you  saw  was  a  scar — the  scar  of  a  wound  that 
came  pretty  near  ending  her  lile.  On  the  voyage  out  to  India 
her  nurse  let  her  fall  out  of  her  arms  ;  she  struck  the  blunt  end 
of  a  spike,  and  gave  herself  a  horiible  gash  just  above  the 
temple.  1  saw  the  icar  a  hundred  times  ;  it  wasn't  very  disfig 
uring,  and  she  never  tried  to  conceal  it.  A  white,  triangular 
scar,  that  used  to  turn  livid  red  when  she  got  angry." 

O'Donnell  hstened  thoughtfully. 

"  Humph  !  "  he  said,  "  a  scar  like  that  it  would  be  impoiisi^ 
ble  ever  to  obliterate,  even  had  she  lived  to  be  eighty," 

'*  Quite  impossible  ;  but  why  ?  " 

"Oh,  only  idle  curiosity,  of  course.  1  noticed  the  mark,  and 
it  set  me  wondering  what  it  might  be."  He  paust^d  a  moment, 
his  eyes  on  the  ground,  his  brows  knit  in  a  thoughtfiil  frown: 
then  he  looked  uj)  and  spf-ke  again,  quite  .'.k.-niplly  :  "  you  tola 
me,  Sir  Peter,  she  died  in  tlie  house  of  a  m^Ji  camsd  Otis,  I 


TMM  SCAA   ON   iHh    TEMFLE. 


I;-:*  i  ■ 


m. 


m. 


•&'4\. 


Af\ 


tk>ak--0  doctor,  who  after \vard  removed  to  LondoiL     Do 
know  if  this  man  still  lives  ?  " 

**  I  know  nothing  about  him,  but  there  u>  oo  remaon  to 
|i08o  he  does  not." 

"  Was  his  Christian  name  Henry  ?  " 

Sir  Peter  paused  a  moment,  and  thought. 

"  It  was  Henry,"  he  answered.  **  I  remember  now,  Heai^ 
Otis,  that  was  his  name." 

'*  Was  he  tall,  spare,  very  light-haired,  very  sallow  oompleiu 
I9D  and  a  stoop  ?  ' 

"Yes,  he  was.  O'Donnell,  have  you  seen  him?  You  de» 
icribe  hira  exactly." 

"  I  think  I  have.  And  she  died  in  his  house,  and  was  buried 
from  it,  you  say  ?  How  long  after  did  he  leave  Castleford  for 
London?" 

"  I  don't  remember  exactly — some  months,  1  think.  There 
were  people  who  said  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  Katherine,  and 
was  miserable  here  after  her  death.  She  was  buried  from  hii 
bouse,  and  he  erected  that  stone  to  her  memory.  Then  he 
took  his  mother  and  went  up  o  London." 

"  He  and  his  mother  lived  alone  ?  " 

"Th-ydid." 

"  They  kept  a  servant,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Sir  Peter  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"  I  suppose  they  did ;  it  was  not  his  mother  who  opened  the 
floor  for  me  when  I  went  there.  O'Donnell,  what  are  you  driv- 
ing at?" 

•'  I'll  tell  yuu  presently.  If  the  servant  who  lived  with  them 
at  the  time  of  Katherine  Dangerfield's  death  be  still  alive,  it 
strikes  me  I  should  like  to  see  that  servant.  One  question 
more,  Sir  Peter,  on  another  subject.  Do  you  know  a  place 
•ome  three  miles  from  here — a  dismal,  lonely  sort  (/  house 
jaOled  Bracken  Hollow  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  know  Bracken  Hollow."  His  voice  dropped  to 
a  whisper,  and  he  glanced  half  fearfully  around.  "  Who  in 
Castleford  does  not  ?  Dismal  and  lonely  !  I  should  think  so. 
Bracken  Hollow  is  a  haunted  house." 

"  Indeed,"  the  chasseur  said,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his 
(buie  immovable  ;  "  it  looks  like  it,  1  confess.  And  what  man- 
ner of  ghost  haunts  it,  and  who  has  ever  seen  him  ? — that  is, 
supposing  it  be  a  him.  As  far  as  iity  experience  goes,  ghosts 
ire  generally  of  the  feminine  gender." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  talk  in  that  way,  O'Donnell,"  Ssi 


.r«  e^.  .-1. 


THE  SCAR   ON  THE    TEMPLE. 


401 


Hour 

mpleit* 

,  buried 
ford  for 

There 
ine,  and 
from  hii 
rhen  he 


ened  the 
irou  driv- 

ith  them 
alive,  it 

[question 
a  place 

\i  house 

[opped  to 
|iWho  ifi 

think  so. 

:ket8,  his 
yhat  man- 
I — that  i«. 

;s,  ghosii 

leli,"  Ssi 


Peter  said  nervouily,  taking  his  arm.  "  You  don't  know  whai 
way  hear  you.  Bracken  Hollow  is  haunted  ;  most  uneaithly 
•ounds  have  been  heard  there — heard  by  more  than  nie,  azul 
net  auperstitious  people  either.  A  murder  was  comntittrd  tbei § 
once,  many  years  ago,  and  they  say — " 

**Oh,  of  couise  they  say.  That's  not  evidence.  I  want  t© 
b.rar  what  actually  has  been  seen." 

**  Well—  nothing  then,"  Sir  Peter  responiled  reluctantlj  ," 
"  but  I  repeat  it — horrible  and  unearthly  cries  have  been  tieard 
c.'>ming  from  that  house  often,  and  by  many  people." 

**  And  none  of  these  people  investigated,  I  suppose  ?  " 

*'  It  was  none  of  their  business  they  were  only  too  glad  to 
gi/e  it  a  wide  berth,  and  go  near  it  no  more." 

"  Who  lives  at  Bracken  Hollow  ?  ' 

"  An  old  woman,  named  Hannah  Gowan.  She  was  Kather* 
ine  Dangerfield's  nurse  in  her  youth,  and  Sir  John  pensioned 
her  off,  and  gave  her  Bracken  Hollow." 

"•Whew — w — w — tt//"  O'Donnell's  low,  shrill  whistle 
pierced  the  quiet  air.  Katherine  Dangerfield's  nurse  I  By 
George  I  that  accounts — "  he  stopped. 

Sir  Peter  looked  at  him,  aU  his  never-ending  suspicions  and 
fears  arou:^d. 

"  Accounts  for  what  ?  " 

O'Donnell  halted  in  his  slow  walk,  and  laid  his  hand  con6- 
dentialiy  on  the  shoulder  of  the  baronet,  and  looked  calmly 
down  into  the  baronet's  httle  wizen  face. 

"  Sir  Peter,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  a  light  is  beginning  to  dawn 
upon  me  ;  the  mysteries  are  lifting  slowly,  but,  1  think,  surely. 
I  can't  tell  you  what  1  think,  what  I  suspect ;  1  hardly  can  teli 
myself  yet.  All  is  confused — all  is  stranger  than  I  can  say  ;  but 
AS  in  a  glass,  darkly  1  I  begin  to  understand — to  see  the  end 
Wait — give  me  time.  As  surely  as  we  both  live,  this  strange 
mystery  shall  be  sifted  to  the  bottom,  and  the  ghost  of  Scars- 
wood,  the  ghost  of  Bracken  Hollow  exorcised.  Now  I  am  go> 
ing  away  by  myself  to  think." 

He  turned  and  strolled  away,  leaving  tlie  petrified  little  bar 
onet  standing  under  the  lime-trees,  the  picture  of  dazed  and 
helpless  astonishment. 

The  first  room  the  young  Irishman  passed  was  tlie  library ; 
its  windows  stood  wide  open  on  the  lawn ;  it  looked  cool,  and 
dark,  and  deserted — a  suitable  place  to  think.  He  stepped  in, 
fer  vatt  ^<ea-green  curtains  Call  agiin,  fiung  himself  into  a  chaii^ 


\\ 


402 


TBM  SCAR   ON    TffF    TAMFLE, 


!  m 


\m 


tf  15 


'  ;    7 


hii  hands  still  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  brow  itill  knit  fai  thid 
reflective  frown. 

The  room  had  seemed  very  dark,  coming  in  from  the  glare  «l 

vhc  sunset.  As,  .after  five  minutes  he  lifted  his  eyes  from  th« 
carpet,  he  found  that  it  ^ras  not  dark.  More,  he  found  that  b* 
was  not  alone — the  library  had  another  occupant-  that  occi» 
^nt  Miss  Herncastle — Miss  Herncastle  asleep. 

Miss  Herncastle  asleep  !  After  the  first  instant's  suipriMi, 
\c  sat  still  and  looked  at  her.  It  was  easy  enough  to  under- 
s*and  how  she  r  i^ne  to  be  hrre.  She  had  passed  the  window?, 
as  he  had  done — the  dark  seclusion  of  the  library  looked  »nvil- 
Ing ;  she,  wearied  and  warm,  had  entered,  and  finding  it  en- 
tirely deserted,  bad  lain  down,  and  all  tinconsciously  fallen 
asleep.  She  had  removed  her  hat;  one  hand  pillowed  her 
head ;  her  face,  with  the  light  full  upon  it,  was  turned  toward 
him.  Pitilessly,  searchmgly,  he  sat  and  read  that  face.  The 
straight,  finely  shaped  nose,  tho  s(iuare-cut,  resolute  lips,  the 
curved,  determined  chin,  the  broad,  rather  low,  intellectual- 
looking  foreliead.  It  was  perfectly  colorless,  that  face,  even  in 
Bleep.  And  in  her  sleep  slie  dreamed,  I'^f^r  her  brows  were  con- 
tracted, her  lips  moved  She  looked  fc*irer  in  her  slumber  than 
he  had  ever  thought  her  awake. 

Who  was  she  ?  A  strange  woman,  surely — a  wonderfij 
woman,  if  the  dim,  mysterious  suspicions  adrift  in  his  mind  were 
ight  Who  was  she  ?  Helen  Herncastle  of  London,  as  she 
said,  or — 

An  inspiration  rarae  to  him — an  inspiration  that  lifted  him 
from  his  chair  to  his  feet,  Iha^  <;aaght  his  breath  for  one  breath- 
less moment. 

The  scar  on  Katherine  Dangerfield's  teniple  I 

He  hardly  knew  what  he  suspected  as  yet,  wild,  improba&lt^, 
impossible  things  ;  and  yet  he  did  suspect.  Now,  if  ever,  Titi 
the  time  to  end  all  suspicions,  and  test  the  truth.  Miss  Herr 
castle  wore  her  black  hair  neatly  do^/n  to  her  eyebrows ;  wha" 
easier  than  now  to  litt  one  of  these  shining  waves,  and  look  at 
ihe  left  temple — it  was  the  side  of  the  face  uppermost. 

He  advanced — he  hesitated.     Something  in  her  helplessneiis 

-in  the  sacredncs*  of  sleep,  appealed  to  his  strength  and  hii 

manhood,  and  held  hirn  back.     It  seemed  a  dastardly  deed  fi 

do  while  she  riept  what  he  dared  not  awake.     And  yet  it  wjs' 

hk  only  chance. 

^*  I  may  be  judging  her  cruelly,  shamefully,"  he  thought ;  <-  j 
the  scar  is  not  there.  I  aoL     For  her  own  sake  I  will  look.*' 


gaSE   rfOOSNELLS   SECRET. 


A  thsl 

[Ureal 

tm  thA 

that  b4 

occ«» 

unJci- 
indow?, 
;d  »nvit- 
g  it  en 
,y  fallen 
wed  hec 
i  toward 
,e.    The 

lips,  the 
ellectual' 
»,  even  in 
jvere  con- 
nber  than 


L. 


jonderfiil 
tiindwerc 
)n,  as  she 

lifted  hiiu 
ae  brealh- 


1 


probaok, 
ever,  ^"^t^^ 
liss  H«P 

nd  look  at 

3t. 

Iplessneu? 
th  and  hi* 
ly  deed  ^^ 
yet  it  v;!f^ 


401 


He  drew  uear — he  stooped  over  the  sleeping  foim ;  very 
gr,ntl7  he  lifted  che  black  waves  of  hair  tLit  covered  forehead 
and  temple.  A  full  and  noble  brow  he  saw  it  was  those  bandf 
of  de;id  dark  hair  hid.  Lifted  olT,  it  altered  her  wondeifull»» 
made  her  ten  tinief-  more  like  the  portrait  of  the  Jead  giru  Ht 
g'.anced  at  the  temple. 

Good  Go<l  1  yes !  there  wjis^  tlie  livit!  triangular  scax  Sir  Petcu 
CUngerfield  had  described,  just  above  the  tejnple. 

He  let  the  hair  drop— he  absolutely  rct'lt-d  for  a  second^  MxA 
.grasped  a  chaii.  He  stood  there  thundci struck,  spell-bounr]^ 
booking  down  at  her,  helpless  t^o  do  anything  else. 

Something  in  the  magnetism  of  that  sir.mgc,  fascinated  gaj^ 
must  iia/e  pierced  even  the  mists  of  slumber.  Without  sound 
f^any  kiud  to  disturb  her,  lUc  eyeiiJ^  vjuiveied,  lifted,  and  Mis3 
Hemcastie,  wide  awake  in  a  second,  looked  up  from  the  sola 
i^PH*  RediNiA^  CDonn ell's  face 


lought ; 
111  look. 


vJ 


CHAPl'ER  XVIII. 

moetik  o'donnell's  seckjbt. 

OR  A  moment — lor  an  hour,  it  seemed  to  him  — not  « 
word  was  spoken.  His  dazed  eye:5  never  left  her  ;  he 
stood  almost  like  4  man  stunned 

She  rose  up  on  her  elbow,  returning  \\i'\  ga-r. 
VViiAt  did  his  face,  its  sudden  pallor,  showing  \vla:c  c\'efi  utiiitr 
'.he  golden  bronze  of  his  skin,  tell  her?  Somclhijig  in  his  cy^s 
rowed  her  strangely — fa.^cinalcd  \\cx  ^iso. 

She  rose  slowly  up  to  a  sitting  posture  and  spoke,  answcriri; 
Uat  fixed  look : 

«  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 
The  sound  of  her  voice  broke  the  spell. 
He  drev/  a  long  breaih  and  was  hi.-usclf  agam.     In  dealit:^ 
vfith  tlxis  woman,  who  could  be  too  subtle  and  too  deceiving  i' 
'*  1   huve   been   cxi^erimenting    m  ajuinal    magnetism,  Mi^.3 
Hemcastle,"  he  .said  coolly  ;  "  m  r.?:hcr  words   uying  \i  my  wiil, 
ti)y  mesmeric  puwci,  could  master  you,     I  mv.idJ  you  a:;le«.-p — 
nound  asic'ej>--aficr  your  walk,  and  i  stood  and  iookcvi  at  yoa 
tnd   wiUeti    v*'^?    ^o  awak?.     Vor  ot^eyrd.     a  iil>erty  on  my 


\U 


<04 


MOSH   a DONSELV S   S'KCKKT, 


■33 


/'    • 


part,  perhaps,  but  thr  temptation  was  irresistible.  Yoc  pM 
ae»rt  a  very  powerful  will  of  your  own,  Miss  Herncabtle;  that 
mine  can  command  it,  is  no  small  triinjii>Ii  for  me.' 

Something  \cTy  like  a  Hush  passed  ()V<*r  the  pcrff.ci  pallor  di 
Miss  Herncastle's  face.  Her  groat  gray  eyes  Hashed  upon  hia 
with  something  more  nearly  akin  to  ang<*r  than  anything  he 
had  ever  seen  in  them  before.  Hut  thorough  sclf-commaniE 
had  lon^  ago  become  second  nature  to  her.  Her  sweet  vokt 
kad  all  its  wonted  soft  music  when  she  s|>cke  : 

"  1  regret  Captain  O'Donnell  has  no  better  use  for  his  tim*! 
than  watching  me,  and  no  better  subject  for  his  mesmeric  ex- 
periments. The  Lady  Cecil  Clive.  for  instance-  -did  he  ever  try 
his  mesmeric  powers  on  her,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"No,"  Captain  O'Donnell  returned,  lying  indolently  batk 
in  his  chair,  and  looking  the  very  embodiment  of  handsome 
tanxfroid;  "I  don't  believe  the  Lady  Cecil  is  a  good  subject ; 
If  she  is,  I  leave  her  to  ner  rightful  owner.  Sir  Arthur  Tre- 
geniia,  when  she  can  get  hii:),  a  hie  h  isn't  often  of  late.  And 
Speaking  of  watching  you,  Mis^  Hirncastle,  1  must  tell  you  I 
have  done  that  once  before,  hi',  ly,  on  an  occasi<^n  whcii  I 
don't  think  you  saw  me.  Not  inieiitionally,  as  now,  ai  least  at 
first ;  afterward,  I  fear,  1  must  plead  guilty  to  the  somewhat 
dishononible  charge.  But  then  again,  the  temptation  was  very 
strong.  And  upon  my  word.  Miss  Herncastle,  you  arc  so  very 
mysterious,  so  very  interesting  a  lady — if  you  will  pardon  my 
saying  so — that  watching  you  more  than  repays  one  for  hii 
trouble." 

^'  Mysterious  I  interesting  1  I  don't  know  what  you  meaaii 
CapUin  O'Donnell  t" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  you  do.  You  must  be  aware  you  are  an 
object  of  mystery  and  interest  to  all  in  this  house  :  if  for  noth- 
ing else,  your  startling  resemblance  to  that  dead  girl,  Katherine 
Dangerfield.  And  then  there  are  the  nocturnal  walks  to 
Bracken  Hollow,  a  haunted  house,  whose  ghost  at  least  ymt 
don't  seem  to  fear.  And  then  there  are  yo'^r  singular  assigca' 
lions,  held  in  such  very  singular  places.  Who,  for  icstance, 
but  mysterious  Miss  Herncastle  would  think  of  giving  a  gentle> 
man  an  interview  in  a — churchyard,  at  nightfall?" 

She  set  her  lips  in  the  line  he  well  knew,  and  looked  at  him, 
Biard,  full,  defiant. 

<«  You  understand  me,  I  think.    Was  it  the  night  before  last  7 
Yes,  it  was.     I  left  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield's  bedside— yoo  re- 
ilwf  I  rekeved  vou,  and  let  you  and  Sir  Arthur  go.     Vlf^, 


MOSM   (ynO^^SELVS  SPCRMr, 


4*! 


that 


allor  <A 
>on  hifli 
ling  hfl 
iinmani 
ct  vowx 

his  tim^ 
leric  ex- 
I  ever  try 

tly  back 
andsome 
subject ; 
hur  'Ire- 
te.     hwh 
tell  you  I 
1  when   I 
u  least  at 
ioiiicwhat 

was  very 
.c  so  very 
>ardon  my 

le  for  hii 

rou  mea2Qi 

rou  are  an 
[f  for  notb- 
iKatherin* 
walks  to 
least  y^ 
|ar  assigna- 
icstance, 
Ig  a  gentle* 

^ed  at  him, 

jfore  la»t  7 
|e — yon  re- 
go.     Vlf^ 


been  talking,  Sir  Peter  and  myself,  of  the  ghost — very 
ftrange  i/fiur  that,  by  the  way — of  Katlierine  Dangerfield,  dead 
and  gone,  also  of  the  young  man  Otis,  who  fell  in  love  with 
her,  and  in  whose  house  «he  died.  With  my  mind  ftill  oi 
Katherine  Dangerfield,  her  sad  story  and  misfortunes,  I  #ent 
to  Katherine  Dangerfield's  grave.  I  thought  I  had  the  place 
aU  to  myself — certainly  I  never  dreamed  of  iu  being  made  i 
place  for  lovers'  tryst-— but  1  was  mistaken.  On  my  way  out, 
Between  me  and  the  gate  two  figures  stood.  Had  I  not  re 
cognized  them — (me  of  them,  rather — I  should  have  passed  on, 
•urprised  a  little  at  their  charnel  house  taste,  but  no  morc& 
But  I  recognized  them.  If  you  will  excuse  me  again,  Misi 
Hemcastle — there  is  no  mistaking  that  graceful  walk  of  yuurs; 
or  that  stately  poise  of  the  head  and  shoulders.  I  knew  yoa ; 
I  also,  after  a  moment,  knew  the  man." 

Her  lips  set  themselves  closer,  in  that  thin,  unpleasant  line  ; 
her  gray  eyes  still  shone  with  that  silent,  threatening  glitter. 

"  Sir  Peter  had  described  hin.,  and  I  heard  you  speak  his 
name — Henry.  Tall,  sallow,  thin,  stooping,  living  in  I^ondon, 
and  named  Henry.  There  was  no  mistaking — the  man  was 
Mr.  Henry  Otis,  surgeon,  late  of  Castleford — the  man  from 
whose  house  Katherine  Dangerfield  was  buried." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  knowledge  of  her,  her  face  "hanged. 
It  turned  gray — a  ghastly  creeping  gray,  from  brow  to  chin. 
For  an  instant  the  fearless  eyes  flinched.  For  an  instant — then 
ike  arose  herself  again,  and  defied  him. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "what  next?" 

**  I  stood,  as  they  say  in  novels,  rooted  to  the  sr^it,  and  yet 
with  a  sensation  of  relief  For  one  moment — onlv  one,  Miss 
Hemcastle — I  fancied  your  companion  to  be  Su"  Arthur 
Tregenna.  I  might  have  known  better.  It  is  possible  for  a 
man  like  that  to  swerve  a  little  from  the  straight  path  of  duty : 
Id  Btoop  to  deliberate  dishonor — never." 

She  smiled — a  smile  not  pleasant  to  see. 

'^Didionorl  an  ugly  word.  For  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  to 
aoeet  me  in  private  thus— would  be  for  him — dishonor  ?" 

"  Most  certainly,  if  he  met  you  as  a  lover.  And  he  is  Cuf 
boOMnicf  that,  though  1  doubt  if  he  knows  it  himself  yet.  For 
Sir  Artfanr  Tregenna,  the  plighted  husbana  A  lady  Cedl 
Ctive,  to  meet  you,  or  any  wciEian,  in  that  way,  would  be  di» 
honor  ** 

<*Tbe  plighted  husband  of  l^dy  C^il  Ctive,"  i&i&  echoed 
■oiUl  fCSU,  with  that   gleaming   smile.     '*  f  beg  your   {tankini, 


I 


iU 


4«i 


MOSB   CPDONI^ELVS  S3CMET, 


11: 


s  S 


i  ;l 


ClfiUiii  (yDonnell,  he   is  not,  he  never   has   been   for 
■econd  that.     And,"  her  eyes  flashed  up  now,  in  a  sudden  ira 
€k  triumph,  "  I  have  but  to  say  it — and  he  never  will !  " 

He  sat  still  looking  at  her,  pale,  and  grave,  and  surprised. 

"  Never  has  been  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Miss  Hemcastlc, 
thai  Sir  Arthur  has  not  been  for  years  the  pledged  husband  «1 
l4>rd  Ruysland's  daughter  ?  " 

"  No ,  not  for  years,  nol  for  days,  not  for  hours.  He  vs  no 
more  her  plighted  husband  than — than  y^u  are.  Ah !  yoc  fed 
that  I  "  She  laughed  bitterly  as  she  saw  him  wince.  *'  You 
have  been,  in  the  best  years  of  her  life,  what  he  never  wai — 
Lady  Cecil's  lover.  Oh,  I  know  more  than  you  think.  Captain 
Redmond  ODonnell,  of  that  little  Irish  episode  six  years  old. 
You  saved  her  life  at  the  risk  of  your  own,  and  fell  in  love  with 
her  afterwards.  Very  pretty,  very  romantic — a  very  old  story 
indeed,  /know,  but  Sir  Arthur  does  not.  He  is  not  in  love 
with  Lady  Cecil  now  ;  do  you  think  it  will  help  love  on  to  hear 
that  story  of  her  youth — that  story  she  will  never  tell  him  ?  " 

Redmond  O'Donnell's  face  had  grown  cold  and  set  as  stone. 
To  the  suppressed  passion  in  her  fare,  in  her  eyes,  in  her  tone, 
he  was  deaf  and  blind.  If  he  had  been  told  Miss  Hemcastle 
was  rightful  heiress  to  the  crown  of  England,  it  would  have  as- 
tonished him  less — he  would  have  believed  it  more  easily — than 
that,  all  unwillingly,  she  had  learned  to  love  him. 

"  You  do  Lady  Cecil  great  injustice.  Miss  Hemcastle,"  he 
answered,  with  chill  sternness,  "  in  bringing  her  name  into  this 
discussion  at  all.  You  wrong  her  more  by  your  confounded 
suspicions.  Whether  she  is,  or  is  not,  the  betrothed  bride  oi 
Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  this  at  least  is  certain — there  is  no  page 
in  her  past  life  that  he  and  all  the  world  are  not  free  to  read 
More,  perhaps,"  looking  her  straight  in  the  eyes,  "  than  all  can 
my.  I  did  her  the  service  you  speak  of  in  Ireland,  six  years 
•1^ ;  is  there  anything  in  that  to  conceal  ?  And  there  the 
*6tfiry/  as  you  phrase  it,  begins  and  ends.  Your  suspicions 
ire  all  unfounded,  all  unjust  Whatever  my  folly  may  have 
been,  in  that  past  time  of  a  most  foolish  yo'ith,  to  her  I  hav2 
been  ever  an  acquaintance — a  friend,  perhaps — no  more. 
Gratitude  she  gave  rae — never  more." 

"  Never  more  ! "  She  turned  her  scornful  face  away,  and 
looked  out  at  the  opal  evening  sky.  "  ^\h,  well,  humility  is  a 
virtue  buC  few  possess ;  let  us  cherish  i<  when  we  find  it  m  ar, 
Iriflhmsn,  of  all  men.  Repeat  that  version  of  the  ston; — be- 
^yr-  it  if  you  will.     And  she  jave  you — ^atitinir.     ^Vhat  S%  it 


\  \M 


M^SB   CfDONNELLS  SFXRFT, 


led 
castle, 
aoid  «i 

ottfcd 
*'  You 

•  w*i — 
Captain 

ars  old. 
>ve  with 
(Id  story 
:  in  love 
I  to  hcaf 
im?" 
as  stone. 
her  tone, 
emcastle 

have  as- 

iy — than 

istle,"  he 
.  into  this 
[nfounded 
bride  ol 
no  page 
to  read 
[an  all  can 
six  years 
[there  the 
juspiciona 
[may  have 
itr  I  have 
[no  more. 

laway,  and 

linility  is  a 

id  it  in  ar, 

Istortj — be- 

1  \Vb*t  is  ^t 


4^ 


rile  gives  Sir  Arthur?  What  is  it  he  gives  h/rJ  love,  de 
j«m  think?  But  she  is  an  earl's  daughter,  and  brought  up  lb 
the  codes  and  the  creeds  of  her  order.  She  will  niamr  hiw 
and  his  ancient  name,  and  hib  long  rent  roll,  if  he  askt  her. 
if  t  You  talk  of  temptation,  Captain  O'Dunnell— is  there  n« 
temptation,  think  you,  here  for  me  ?  " 

"  To  what  ? "  His  cold  eyes,  his  cold  tores,  cut  her  liks 
knives.  "  To  blind  and  fascinate  hini,  to  make  his  life  misent 
bk,  to  put  him  from  her,  to  make  him  a  wanderer  over  the 
earth,  to  spoil  the  happiness  of  two  lives  ?  That,  perhaps,  it  is 
in  your  power  to  do — no  more.  If  you  think  he  will  ever 
marry  you — a  woman  of  whom  he  knows  nothing — a  woman 
who,  I  am  very  certain,  has  her  own  good  reasons  for  hiding 
her  past — you  mistake  him  entirely.  Sir  Arthur  is  a  very 
proud  man  ;  he  comes  of  a  very  proud  race.  The  baronets  of 
Tregemiii  may  have  married  governesses  before  now — never 
adventuresses." 

She  turned  upon  him  with  eyes  of  fire  : 

"Captain  O'Donnell!" 

"  I  have  said  it,  Miss  Herncastie — you  force  it  from  me. 
Do  you  think  his  infatuation  will  lead  him  mto  asking  you  to 
be  lus  wife,  before  inquiring  into  your  past  ?  Will  that  past 
bear  inquiring  into  ?  Sooner  than  see  it,  1,  myself,  would  show 
you  to  him  as  you  are." 

He  was  still  lying  back  in  the  easy-chair,  his  tone  quiet,  bul 
his  mouth,  his  eyes,  relentless  as  doom.  No  grim  old  judge, 
with  the  black  cap  on,  pronouncing  sentence  of  death  on  the 
wretch  in  the  dock,  could  have  looked  more  sternly  relentless 
than  he. 

Her  whole  mood  changed  ;  the  swift  dark  anger  died  out  oi 
her  eyes,  she  sank  slowly  back  in  her  seat,  her  handci  folded 
before  h^,  and  looked  at  him. 

"Captain  ODonnell,"  she  said,  and  there  was  a  strange 
weary,  wistf  j1  pathos  in  her  voice,  "  I  asked  you  before — I  ask 
f ou  again — what  have  I  ever  done  to  you  that  you  should  b< 
t3ie  one  to  hunt  me  down  ?  " 

Something  in  her  tone — somv^thing  in  her  look-~dreary,  for- 
k»m — touched  him  in  spite  of  himself. 

"And  I  answer  again — nothing,  Miss  Herncastie.  I  have 
BO  wish  to  turn  amateur  detective,  believe  me.  But  Si? 
Arthur  Tregenna  is  my  friend — 1  cannot  see  him  du])t:d  xrifch 
mkX  raising  my  voice  to  \^  *m.  Von  have  brought  d?!scofd  voaK 
WTetche<]lues5  enoti|[h  lo  this  house  alireadv  ;  go  am^  leavt  '^^^^ 


1 

PPf^ 

1 

1]*: 

■ 

i'l '  1 

m 

fi>''l 

1 

If      ' 

f 

■ 

'     '!                          ! 

■i\-- 


^^ 


l>l 


^  ■iM|; 


'-]  !■  #1 


40ft 


JfOJi?   &DONSRLVS  SECRET, 


satisfied  with  what  you  have  done.  All  that  I  suspect  I  tluLli 
keep  to  myself ;  and  1  suspect  a  great  deal.  But  go;  leave 
Sir  Arthur  to  his  duty — leave  Sir  Peter  free  from  ghosts,  and  il 
it  IS  in  my  power  to  aid  or  help  you  in  any  way,  command  me. 
But  all  this  plotting,  this  working  in  the  dark,  must  end,  iitr 
else — "     He  paused. 

"  Or  else  it  is  war  between  you  and  me — is  that  it,  Capttir 
O'Donnell?  You  will  devote  your  man's  strength  and  you* 
man's  intellect  to  hunting  down  and  driving  from  Scarswood^ 
one  poor  woman  who  has  never  harmed  you — who  earns  the 
bread  she  eats,  and  who  only  takes  the  goods  her  £  ods  provide 
Very  well,  sir,  war  let  it  be.  Do  your  worst — I  will  do  mine« 
You  have  called  me  an  adventuress — prove  it,  if  you  can.  For 
your  other  insinuations,  I  pass  them  over  in  silence.  The  day 
may  come  when  you  will  find  I  have  been  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning ;  when  even  your  spotless,  peerless,  perfect  Lady 
Cecil  may  descend  fi^om  her  pedestal,  and  be  known  as  she  is. 
As  she  is.  I  repeat  it,  Captain  O'Donnell.  No  need  for  yon 
to  do  battle  in  her  behalf  By  your  own  showing,  she  is  noth- 
ing to  you.  Do  your  worst,  I  repeat — spy  upon  me  when  and 
how  you  choose,  overhear  all  I  say,  suspect  every  word  nd 
action,  and  repeat  everything  to  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna.  I  tell 
you  it  will  be  labor  lost — he  loves  me.  You  hear,  most  gal- 
lant of  Irishmen,  most  courtly  of  gentlemen — loves  me,  and  aa 
surely  as  I  will  it,  will  one  day  make  me  his  wife.  Tell  him 
this  also,  if  you  choose — it  will  be  in  keeping  with  the  rest 
And  I  thought  you  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman  !  Let  me  pass, 
Captain  O'Donnell — I  have  no  more  to  say  to  you." 

(^nce  again  it  flashed  out,  the  passion  he  had  awakened 
witliin  her,  the  jealousy  he  had  aroused,  and  he  never  saw  it 
He  saw  only  an  angry  and  utterly  base  womas  at  bay,  and  his 
iieart  hardened  toward  her. 

"  In  one  moment,"  he  said.  "  Believe  me,  I  have  little  wiic 
to  prolong  this  interview.  I  have  given  you  your  one  dianct, 
an  J  you  have  refused  it.  It  shall  be  no  fault  of  mine  if  Sir 
Arthur  Tregenna  works  his  own  life-long  misery.  I  warn  you 
(airly — for  his  sake,  for  Lady  Cecil's,  for  Sir  Peter's.  I  shall 
;^how  you  to  them  as  you  are.  One  moment  more.  Miss 
Hemcastle,  if  you  please.  In  overhearing  your  rem^jk,  in 
p.?Asing  out  of  the  churchyard,  I  also  heard  yoti  say,  '  Marie 
r>e  Lansac  is  here.'  Now,  what  has  Marie  De  Lansac— Ro9«' 
O'  Uonnell — to  do  with  that  man  or  you  ?  " 

H^j  hMV*  was  on  the  handle  of  the  do^     %e  ivii.nwd  (w4 


f      :fi 


MOSR   a  DON  NELLS  SECRET, 


409 


[•hall 

leave 
andil 
id  me. 
tid,  «r 

:aptiir 
id  yottt 
rswood^ 
ms  the 
)rovide 

0  mine* 
n.  For 
rhe  day 

1  against 
ici  Lady 
,s  she  is. 

for  you 
;  is  noth- 
irhen  and 
irord  ^  nd 
1.     I  tell 
naost  gal" 
e,  and  as 
Tell  hini 
the  rest 
me  pass, 


iwakencd 
saw  it 
and  his 


er 


little  wifs 
dianct, 
Inine  if  Sif 
warn  you 
I  shall 
ore,  Miss 
em«k,  in 
'Marie 


lac- 


10(!?9^A  ftw* 


turn  ad  10  him,  a  smile  of  malicious  triumph  on  her  face  suid  in 
her  eyei, 

"  Ah  1 "  she  said,  "you  heard  that,  did  you  ?  What  is  Mari« 
De  Lansac  to  me?  Captain  O'Donnel)  you  accuse  me  ol 
the  guilt  of  having  secrets  and  mysteries  ii  my  life.  I  wondej 
if  1  am  alone  in  that  ?  I  wonder  if  Sir  Peter  Dangerficld  kiiev 
£very  episode  in  my  lady's  career?  I  wonder  if  her  papa  aiid 
her  friends  are  free  to  read  every  page  in  Lady  Cecilys  !ife  ?  I 
«?onder  if  Redmond  O'Donnell  knows  every  incident  connected 
with  his  pretty,  gentle  sister's  New  Orleans  existence  ?  What 
woman  teiis  father,  lover,  brother — alii  Not  one  among  all 
the  millions  on  earth.  Captain  O'Donnell,  answer  me  this: 
Did  you  ever  hear  from  your  sister's  lips  the  name  of  Castoo 
Dantree  ?  " 

"  Gaston  Dantree."  The  name  had  a  familiar  sound  to  hiro. 
but  at  that  moment  he  could  not  tell  where  he  had  heard  it — 
certainly  not  from  his  sister.  The  derisive  eyes  of  the  gov 
erness  were  upon  him ;  he  could  not  understand  the  mockinjjj 
triumph  of  their  glance. 

"  I  have  heard  that  name,"  he  answered,  "  but  not  from 
Rose." 

"  1  thdupht  not.  Then  I  tell  no  tales.  I  keep  my  own 
secrets,  and  let  others  keep  theirs.  Captain  O'  Donnell,  the 
dressing-bell  rings.     I  wish  you  good-afternoon." 

She  was  gone  as  she  spoke.  Five  minutes  alter,  while  he 
still  sat  there,  mystified,  annoyed,  perplexed,  an  opposite 
loor  opened,  and  Lady  Cecil  came  in. 

She  was  dressed  to-day  in  some  pale,  sea-green,  filmy  stufl^ 
that  floated  about  her  like  a  cloud,  a  little  foam  of  point-lace 
here  and  there.  A  cluster  of  trailing  grasses  and  half-crushed 
pink  buds  clasped  the  soft  corsage ;  trailing  sprays  of  green, 
and  a  rose  of  palest  blush,  freshly  gathered,  adorned  the  light 
'^fown  hair.  She  looked  like  a  lily,  a  naiad  queen,  like  a  sea 
i^,oddesSs,  lacking  the  shells  and  sea-water.  A  more  striking 
c:ontrast  to  the  woman  who  had  left  him  could  hardly  be  con- 
scfred  And  she  was  not  pledg»id  to  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna — 
t^'i  never  been.  For  Dne  mome»  ;  Imill  of  exquisite  deliglU 
Alied  him  at  the  tliought — the  next  he  could  have  laughed  aloud 
at  his  own  folly. 

"  As  though  it  couH  matter  to  me  if  to-morrow  were  hcf 
wedding  day,"  he  thought.  "  Free  or  fettered,  she  is  I  «rd  Ra3r»> 
land's  daughter,  and  I  am — a  Captain  of  Cha&seu?S)  widi  110 
hope  of  l^eing  anything  else  to  my  d)ing  ^y*' 


t 


1  .  : 


m 


III! 


4iO 


MOS£   O'D0NJf£LV:i  SECRET, 


ViV  ^K 


VM 


V  4  ■  ■ 


'     i         • 

■  ■ 

Ii  i'  1 

'  r  ,:!i 

K   f      M 

m 

.'  '<! 


"  You  here,  Captain  O  Don  >ell  ? "  she  said.    '*  1  did  not  luion 

it.    A  came  in  aearch  of- "  bhc  ixiiiseil,  and  a  faint  «:clor  ro6« 

in  the  lily  face.     •*  They  told  me  Miss  Herncastle  T^as  her^" 
she  added,  hastily ;  "  they  td  tst  have  l.>een  mistaken.' 

"  No,"  the  chasseur  answc-  «jd,  coolly,  '*  they  were  not.  Miii 
Herncastle  has  been  here-  -t*ith  uie.  She  only  left  a  mornen)^ 
before  you  came  in." 

The  faint  color  deepens i  n  her  <  heeks.  She  turned  ani 
tfioved  away  again. 

"  1  wished  to  see  her.  i(  tV)es  not  matter — it  will  do  aftei 
dinner.  You  dine  with  us,  \  hope,  Captain  O'Donnell,  or  (k> 
you  run  away  at  the  sound  of  t!ie  dinner-bell  ?  You  did  it  a 
day  or  two  ago,  and  Ginevra  "st'-s  very  angr)." 

She  spoke  coldly,  voice  aii.i  manner  alike,  unconsciously 
frigid.  And  without  waiting  hn  reply,  she  reopened  the  doof 
%  d  walked  away. 

*'  Miss  Herncastle  there — with  h;rn  !  "  she  thought,  a  sudden, 

.swift,  hot   pang,   that  all  Sir  AkthuVs  defalcation   had   nevei 

Srought  there,  sharp  at  her  lieart ;  **  it  ts  well  the  days  of  duer 

ig  are  exploded,  or  Sir  Arthur  might  be  tempted  to  call  huix 

)it." 

She  hated  herself  for  the  hot  anger  she  felt.  What  was  it  to 
her  ? — what  could  it  matter  to  her,  with  whom  Captain  O'Don- 
fiell  chose  to  amuse  hiin&elf?  He  was  nothing  to  her,  of 
course — nothing.  And  she  was  less  than  notliing  to  him ;  all 
feer  beauty,  all  her  witcheries  were  powerless  here,  vid  he  took 
good  care  to  let  her  see  it.  But  that  tlush  was  stiD  on  her  face, 
that  sharp  pain  still  beneath  the  sea-green  corsage,  beneath 
laces  and  roses,  when  she  took  her  place  at  dinner. 

Captain  O'Donnell  dined  with  the  family,  the  goverre*s  did 
not  He  looked  at  his  sister  across  a  tall  epergne  ol  d<Qir«r& 
She  was  talking  to  Squ::i  Talbot — Squire  Talbot,  whom  *hc 
soft,  sad  eyes  and  wistful  little  face  had  been  enthralling  of  l»t«, 
and  wondered  what  Miss  Herncastle  could  hare  meant 
**  Gaston  Dantree,"  he  mused  ;  he  recalled  the  name  weK 
HJiough  iiffiw — Katherine  Dangerfield's  dastardly  lover,  df 
course.  He  had  been  a  native  of  New  Orleans ;  had  Rose 
known  him  there  ?  Hau  her  singular  whim  of  visiting  this 
pi&ce  anything  to  do  with  knownig  him  ?  The  mere  suspicion 
iQftde  liini  warm  and  uncomfortable. 

"I'll  ask  her  after  dinner,'*  he  thought,  "and  she  will  teti 
Boe,  Can  he  h&ve  had  anything  to  do  with  the  change  in  her  ? 
^— (^  g;l<Mm^  the  double  of  her  life,  that  h^^^  preyed  Oi\  b£2 


Ai/S£    0'£>0/vNALL'S    iiLCJi£r, 


Uoo# 
r  rofi* 

MiM 


)  aftei 
or  do 

id  it  a 

ciousiy 
le  dooi 

udden, 
nevet 
jf  duel 
all  hiii^ 

as  it  to 
O'Don- 
her,  of 
im;  all 
he  took 
er  face, 
:)€neath 

r«4  did 

ion>  ♦he 
ofl*t«, 
meant 
me  weK 
)ver,  (A 
id  Rose 
ing  this 
iispicion 

wiU  tett 
^  in  her  f 

Oii.  hfi2 


4tl 

Mm 


mind,  aTi<]  broken  her  health  ?     And  if  so,  how  comes 
Uerncastlc  to  know  it  ?  " 

The  ladies  left  the  table.  Redmond  O'Donnell  sat  very  tL 
lent  ind  thoughtful  during  the  "  wine  and  walnut  "  lapse,  be- 
fore the  gentlemen  joined  him.  Fate  favored  him  upon  this 
occasion.  Squire  Talbot  was  turning  Lady  Dangerfield^i 
aausic,  and  his  sister,  quite  alone,  with  a  web  of  rose-pink  net- 
ting  in  her  hands,  sat  in  the  recess  of  the  bay-window.  He 
orossed  over  and  joined  her  at  once. 

"  Rose,"  he  began,  speaking  abniptly,  "  how  much  longa 
do  you  propose  remaining  in  Sussex  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  surprised  at  the  sudden  and  unexpected 
question,  a  little  startled  by  the  dark  gravity  of  his  face. 

"Remain?  I — "  she  faltered  and  stopped.  "  Are  ^^  anxionf 
to  go,  Redmond  ?    If  so,  of  course — " 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  go  until  the  object  that  brought  you  here 
is  an  object  accomplished,  Rose.  That  you  have  some  object 
in  insisting  upon  coming  to  this  particular  place  I  am  quite 
certain.    More,  perhaps  1  can  partly  guess  what  that  object 


f> 


is: 

The  rose-hued  netting  dropped  in  her  lap,  her  great,  dark 
eyes  dilated  in  sudden  terror. 

"Redmond  I" 

"  You  have  not  chosen  to  make  me  your  confidant,  Ros^ 
and  I  ask  for  no  one's  secrets,  not  even  yours.  Still  you  wi^l 
permit  me  to  ask  one  question  :  Did  you  ever  know  Gastotf^ 
bantree  ?  " 

Suddenly,  sharply,  without  warning,  the  question  came  upoi 
her.  One  faint,  wailing  cry,  then  her  hands  flew  up  and  cov 
ered  her  face.     He  was  answered. 

No  one  had  heard  that  suppressed  cry ;  the  curtains  of  tlM 
recess  hid  ^hem. 

He  sat  aiid  looked  at  her  almost  as  pitilessly  as  he  had  looked 
ftt  Miss  Herncastle  two  hours  before.  In  his  stern  justice  Red- 
8»oiid  O'Domiell  could  be  very  hard — to  himself  as  well  as  to 
dihers. 

*'  I  an ;  answered,"  he  said — "  you  have  known  Gaston  Dan- 
ftrs*  He  was  a  I^uisianian — you  knew  him  in  New  Orleans. 
He  disappeared  here  :  at  Castleford  the  last  trace  of  him  is  t« 
be  foond.  Was  it  to  discover  that  trace  you  came  %nd  bronj^t 
me  here  ?  Look  up.  Rose,"  he  said,  sternly,  "  and  answM 
i»e." 

Sbs  %ared  as  wcB  as  loved  him.    HabituaU|r  he  wm  vof 


J"-Vt. 


ill 


m' 


; 


m^' 


I? 


fi 


ijri 


I    I 


!    ill 
I     ; '' 

!!        I; 


11        I 


14 


M^ 


MOSM  VDOHNiiLL':i  SECRET, 


gmitle  witi:  her,  with  all  women,  but  let  that  stubborn  aeaite  ai 
ri^ht  ana  wrong  of  his  be  roused  and  he  became  as  iron.  Hef 
hands  dropped  at  his  stem  command,  her  i>oor,  pale  fiice,  all 
drawn  and  white  with  terror  and  trouble,  looked  piteously  i^i 
4t  its  judge. 

*<  Tell  me  the  truth,"  he  ordered,  his  lips  set.  '*  It  is  taw 
aJut  for  further  prevarication.     You  knew  this  man  ?  '* 

"  I  knew  him  ! "  1 

"In  New  Orleans,  before  he  came  here  to  court  and  desert;, 
cike  the  craveti-hearted  dastard  he  was,  Katherine  Danger 
field?" 

"Yes." 

His  lips  set  themselves  harder  under  his  long  mustache,  hii 
blue  eyes  looked  stem  as  steel. 

''  I  said  I  asked  for  no  one's  secrets,  not  even  yours.  I  do^ 
Rose.     What  wa*  he  to  you  ?  " 

She  drew  away  from  him  once  again,  hiding  her  shrinking  face 
in  her  hands.  A  dry,  tortured  sob  was  her  only  answer.  Bart 
her  judge  and  arraigner  never  relented. 

"  Was  he  a  lover  of  yours  ?  " 

She  made  a  mute  gesture  of  assent 

"  A  false  one,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Heaven  help  me — yes." 

A  pause ;  then — 

"  Rose,  did  M.  De  Lansac  know  ?  ** 

'*  He  suspected.     He  never  knew." 

"  Did  he  favor  Dantree  ?  " 

"  No :  he  forbade  him  the  house." 

'*  And  you — ^you.  Rose  O'Domiell,  stooped  to  meet  htm  ii 
secret — to  make  and  keep  assignations.     You  did  this  ?  " 

Again  that  sobbing  sound,  again  that  shrinking  away  of  ^ace 
and  figure.  It  was  reply  enough.  If  Lady  Cecil  Clivc  had 
seen  the  face  of  the  Rediuond  O'Donnell  who  sat  in  judgment 
ti)ere  upon  the  sister  he  loved,  she  would  have  been  puzzled 
indeed  to  %dA  much  similarity  between  it  and  the  face  of  that 
other  RedsM>nd  O'Donnell  among  the  Fermaiiagh  hills.  He 
Ittved  his  o»ly  sister  very  dearly  ;  he  had  held  her  a  "  little  lower 
%X!\  the  angels,"  and  he  found  her  to-day  with  a  secret  of  deceit 
and  wrong-doing  in  her  life — found  her  false  and  subtle,  like 
the  rest  of  her  sex.  Was  there  no  truth  in  woman — no  honof 
ia  Bian — left  on  the  earth.  Ha  sat  dead  silent ;  it  was  bitter  to 
li  ja  well  nigh  as  the  bitterness  of  death. 

Hifi  i^ffDiat  frji^trpgd  her,  cut  Yusl^  as  no  fttio^i!^  repftMck 


r- 


in*  m 
Hei 

dy  op 


IS 


lesert^ 
anger 

he,  hii 

I  do, 

Qgface 


htiaii 


It 


5kce 


oi 
ivc  hjud 
dgiueat 
luxzled 
of  that 
He 
e  lower 
f  deceit 
tie,  like 
ohonof 
)itter  to 


kOSE   (^DOANELVS  SMCkAT. 


4IS 


c»aid  have  done.  Once  again  she  lifted  her  face,  all  white  And 
fat-'O'is,  to  his. 

**  Redmond  1 "  she  cried,  with  a  great  gush,  "  why  arc  yoa 
so  hard,  so  bitter  ?  Why  do  you  judge  me  so  harshly  ?  I  wm 
very  young ;  I  did  not  know  what  distrust  meant,  and  I —  I — 
loved  him  with  all  my  heart.  He  said  he  loved  me,  and  I — oh, 
Redmond ;  it  is  nine  years  ago — I  believed  him.  1  mm 
(vamed ;  others — older  and  vnser,  read  him  aright — told  me  it 
mui  the  prospective  heiress  of  M.  De  Lansac's  millions  he 
loved — not  Rose  O'Donnell.  But  1  loved  and  trusted,  and 
could  not  believe.  1  met  him  in  spite  of  my  grandfather's 
commands,  I  received  his  letters — to  my  shame  I  own  it.  Then 
our  grandfather  married — then  Clart-ncc  was  born,  and  I — 
learned  the  truth  at  last.  It  was  all  as  they  said — he  was  false, 
base,  mercenary  to  the  core,  was  the  heir,  not  I,  and  he  left 
me.  Left  me  without  a  word,  and  came  here  to  Kngland. 
Still,  without  a  word,  he  returned  me  my  letters  and  picture. 
Then — the  next  thing  I  heard  of  him  ~  1  saw  the  mournful  story 
of  Katherine  Dangerfield  in  the  English  papers  my  grandfather 
received.  From  that  time  1  have  liuard  nothing — nothing.  I 
should  have  told  y&d,  perhajis,  but — it  is  not  so  easy  a  story  to 
tell — the  story  of  one's  own  folly  and  humiliation." 

The  soft,  sad  voice  ceased ;  the  pale,  drooping  face  turned 
far  away  from  him  in  the  silvery  dusk.  But  in  his  face 
there  was  little  relenting,  in  his  voice  little  softness,  when  he 
spoke. 

"  The  folly  of  the  past  I  could  forgive  ;  the  folly  of  the  prefr 
ent,  HO.  That  you  took  a  girl's  fancy  for  a  man's  handsonte 
face,  and  were  the  dupe  of  his  false  words,  might  be  overlooke4 
— is  very  natural  in  a  girl  of  sixteen,  i'hat  a  woman  of  fiyc- 
and-twenty  should  still  cling  to  the  n  rmory  of  so  despicable  a 
wretch,  still  pursue  him,  and  drag  me,  in  my  ignorance  of  yoiit 
secret,  into  that  pursuit — that  I  cannot  forgive." 

He  arose  as  he  spoke,  angry  exceedingly,  wounded,  grieved 
{Aexprcssibly.  She  seized  his  hand  in  a  sort  of  desperahon, 
fciid  clung  to  it. 

"  Redmond,  you — you  don't  understand.  It  is  not  that.  I 
(ion!t  care  for  him ;  it  is  all  I  can  do  to  pray  to  be  kept 
from  hating  his  memory,  whether  he  be  alive  or  dead.  It  if 
ihat  —that  I — "  Her  courage  failed  as  she  looked  up  into  thai 
iron  face.  "  Redmond  !  "  she  cried  \  "  who  has  been  talking  to 
r»u — who  has  told  y«u  this  ?  " 

*^  Mijis  Hemcastle,"  he  answered.      '  Your  secret,  it  wodk4 


i 


■f!  *.: 


m 


414 


MOSE   ODONNELVS  SECMBT, 


has  all  along  been  no  secret  to  her.  She  bade  :u9  *sk 
fOtt  two  hours  ago,  what  you  knew  of  Gaston  Dantrcc." 

"  Miss  Hemcastle  1 "  she  could  but  just  repeat  the  name  in 
her  ungovernable  surprise. 

"Miss  Herncastle,"  he  repeated,  i till  very  coldly.  '*  If  I 
were  in  your  place,  I  think  I  should  come  to  an  understandlrc 
with  that  lady.  It  was  against  my  will  1  ever  came  to  England 
If  I  had  dreamed  of  your  object,  1  certainly  would  never  hav* 
•ct  foot  in  it.  But  I  trusted  Rose  O'Donnell.  That  is  all  ovw 
now — it  is  only  one  other  lesson  added  to  the  rest.  When  youi 
inquiries  concerning  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree  are  at  an  end,  let 
me  know,  and  we  will  depart  for  France." 

Again  he  was  turning  away,  hurt,  angry,  grieved  beyond  words 
to  say.     Again  she  caught  his  hand  and  held  him  fast. 

**  Redmond!  brother — friend!  Oh,  my  God,  why  will  you 
judge  me  so  hardly?  I  have  deserved  it,  perhaps,  but — you 
break  my  heart.  If  you  knew  all  1  have  suffered,  you  might 
pity — you  might  forgive." 

He  withdrew  his  hand,  and  turned  sternly  away. 

"  I  have  told  you — the  past  1  could  forgive  easiJr  ;  tht  prcs^ 
ent  I  cannot." 

And  then  he  was  gone.  For  a  moment  she  sat  looking  after 
him  with  eyes  of  passionate  pleading.  Then  the  pride  ol 
blood,  latent  in  her,  arose.  He  was  hard,  he  was  cruel,  he 
was  merciless.  If  he  had  ever  loved,  himself,  or  suffered,  he 
would  not  be  so  pitiless  to  her.  Lanty  was  wrong — neither 
Lady  Cecil  nor  any  other  woman  had  ever  touched  his  heart 
of  granite. 

She  sat  wounded — humbled — silent.  Then  all  at  once  the 
<»  collection  of  Miss  Herncastle  flashed  upon  her.  She  had 
%fM.  him — she  knew  all.  All  I  Rose  O'Donnell  turned  white 
And  cold  from  head  to  foot.     Did  Miss  Herncastle  know  all  ? 

She  rose  up  hurriedly  and  looked  down  the  lighted  length  dl 
'  le  spacious  drawing-rooms.  No  ;  Miss  Hemcastle  was  no- 
where to  be  seen.  Should  she  seek  her  in  her  room  ?  She 
stood  for  an  instant  irresolute.  Squire  Talbot  espied  her  and 
turned  to  cross  over.  She  saw  him  in  time — ^ight  was  her 
only  escape.  She  stepped  through  the  upen  window  and  did" 
appeared 

The  tall  trees  of  the  lime- walk  stood  up  black  in  the  ivory 
light  of  the  moon.  She  turned  toward  it,  then  as  suddenly 
■topped.  For  from  its  somber  shadows  Sir  Arthur  Tregenca 
•nd  Miss  Hemcastle  walked. 


Mas£  aooNN&Lvs  ^Eomr. 


48! 


ft 
name  in 

"If  I 

LngUad 
ver  hav* 

all  ovw 
len  your 

end,  let 

id  words 

will  you 
)ut — you 
3U  might 


the  jjrcs- 

:in^  after 
pride  o< 
cruel,  he 
ifered,  he 
— neither 
his  heart 

once  the 
She  had 
led  white 
low  all  ? 
length  ol 
\  was  no- 
rn  ?  She 
i  her  and 
t  was  her 
^  and  di^" 

the  ivory 

suddenly 

Tregenna 


The  meeting  had  been  purely  accidental,  on  his  pait,  jU 
least  He  had  gone  forth  to  smoke  a  cigar,  and  (was  it  by  -i^. 
cident?)  Miss  Hemcastle  had  unexpectedly  appeared  upon  the 
scene.  Her  head  was  aching — she  had  come  out  for  the  air. 
A  black  lace  scarf,  artistically  draped  like  ?  Spanish  mantilla, 
fovered  her  head  and  shoulders,  one  white,  shaj^ely  hand  held 
it  in  its  place.  A  crimson  rose,  half  shattered,  gleamed  abov? 
one  pink  ear.  .She  had  never  looked  better  in  her  life---Sii 
Arthur's  eyes  pretty  plainly  told  her  that  And  iiaving"met 
by  chance  the  usual  way,"  what  mure  natural  than  that  they 
should  take  a  turn  dov/n  the  lime-walk  together. 

'■'  Do  you  return  to  the  drawmg-room  ? "  Rose  heard  him 
say.      "  it  is  beyond  all  comparison  pkasanter  here,  but — " 

*'  But  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  may  be  missed,"  Miss  Hernca»< 
tie's  sweet  voice  suppleiiiented.  "  No,  Sir  Arthur,  T  shall  go 
to  my  room.  Don't  let  me  detain  you  an  instant  longer. 
Thanks  again,  for  the  books  and  the  music,  and  good-night" 

Music  and  books !  He  had  been  making  her  presents  then 
— what  would  Lady  Cecil  say  to  this  ?  She  bade  him  good- 
night With  her  brightest  smile,  waved  a  white  hand  in  the  pearly 
light,  and  turned  with  the  slow,  stately,  graceful  motion  pecu- 
liar to  her,  and  walked  away. 

He  stood,  a  strange  expression  of  yearning  in  eyes  and 
face,  and  watched  the  tal'  figure  from  sight.  Then  he  turned 
reluctantly — Rose  could  see  it — stepped  through  the  vrindow 
whence  she  herself  had  emerged,  and  was  gone. 

**  Miss  Hemcastle  ! " 

Rose  O'Donnell's  clear  voice,  rivxging  along  the  silence, 
came  to  the  ear  of  the  governess.  She  had  reached  the 
King's  Oak,  and  was  standing,  a  smile  on  her  lips,  on  the  very 
spot  where  Sir  Peter  had  seen  the  ghost.  She  turned  at  the 
sound  of  her  name,  the  smile  fading  away,  and  confronted  the 
jpeaker. 

"  You  cali*^,  Miss  O'Donnell  ? '' 

"  I  called,  Miss  Hemcastle.  I  wish  to  speak  a  word  to 
$rou.  I  will  not  detain  you  an  instant,"  as  the  goveroesi 
^vered  ever  so  little  in  the  soft  night  air.  "  Two  hours  a|^ 
fou  bade  my  brother  ask  me  what  I  knew  of  Gaston  Dantr^e, 
Miss  Hemcastle,  in  my  turn  I  ask,  what  do  j^ou  know  ?  " 

She  looked  more  like  her  brother,  as  she  spoke,  than  the 
govemess  had  ever  seen  her.  She  came  of  a  bold  and  brave 
race,  and  some  of  the  fire  of  that  race  shone  in  her  eyes  now, 
Mias  Hemcastle  returned  her  gaze  steadily. 


4l6 


MNdGUT  Al4iJ  PAGA, 


*•  You  really  wish  me  to  answer  that  question  ?  " 

*'  Certainly  or  else  I  had  not  asked  it.  Did  you  knuw  Gt» 
ton  Dantree  in  New  Orleans  ?  " 

**  I  never  saw  Gaston  Dantree  in  New  Orleans  in  mj 
tife." 

"  In  England  then  ?  " 

Miss  Hemcastle  stood  looking  at  her,  making  no  reply. 

'*You  heard  me?"  Rose  O'Donnell  repeated;  "what  <tt 
rem  know  of  Gaston  Dantree  and — and  me  f  " 

Miss  Hemcastle' s  lips  opened  to  answer  with  that  exceUeni 
brevity  of  speech  that  characterized  her. 

"  Everything." 

"  Miss  Hemcastle  ! " 

"  It  is  your  own  fault,  and  your  brother's,  Miss  O'Donnell, 
since  by  that  name  you  prefer  to  be  known." 

"That  name!' 
nearer,  her  eyes  dilating,  her  face  ashen  white 

"  Miss  Hemcastle,"  she  cried,  "  what  dc  you  mean  ?  What 
do  you  know  ?  " 

"  This  I  "  the  voice  of  the  governess  rose,  her  mouth  grew 
•et  and  stem — "  this — that  if  Gaston  Dantree  be  alive,  yor 
are  Gaston  Dantree' s  wife  1 " 


she  whispered  the  two  words,  came  a  step 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

KNIGHT   AND    PAGK. 

IT  was  a  noticeable  fact — noticed  chiefly  by  Sir  Arthur 
Tregenna  and  Squire  Talbot — that  neither  Miss  Hem- 
castle nor  Miss  O'Donnell  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room.  For  Captain  O'Donnell,  he  did  not  evca 
perceive  his  sister's  absence.  He  sat  a  little  apart  from  th« 
others,  turning  over  a  book  of  photographed  celebrities,  a&i 
never  seeing  one  of  them.  One  questi(  n  was  revolving  itsell 
over  and  over  again  in  his  brain  until  he  was  dizzy.  Had 
{Catherine  Dangerfield  died  six  years  ago,  or  had  she  not  ?  If 
Ae  had  not,  who  then  lay  in  that  quiet  grave  in  the  Methc*dist 
diurchyard?  If  she  had^  who  then,  in  the  name  of  all  XhzX 
was  wonderful,  was  Helen  Hemcastle  ?  He  thought,  till  hif 
brain  wa«  daMxL 

■  ^  •  -^    -a 


rNlGHT  AND  PaSE, 


417 


m  my 


^hat  (St 
xcelktti 


Donnellf 

t  a  step 

•     What 

ith  grew 
live,  yor 


I  Arthur 
ssHem- 

diawinS" 
lot  evea 
from  th« 
[ties,  an^i 
ing  itself 
;y.  Had 
not  ?  If 
lethodist 
r  all  th&t 
t,  till  hif 


Ladhr  Cecil  Clire,  with  Sir  Arthur  seated  near  her,  gUnced 
lurthrelj  across  the  length  of  the  drawing-room  at  Redmond 
ODonnell's  dark,  tired  face  and  somber,  blue  eyes,  and 
wondered,  with  a  sort  of  awe,  of  what  he  could  be  thinking  to 
Intently  and  sternly. 

"There  is  but  oneway,"  he  said  to  himself,  moodily;  '*• 
w»y  I  hate  to  take,  and  yet — for  every  one's  Mike — for  Rmt^a 
— for  Tregenna's — for  Sir  Peter's— it  should  be  taken,  li 
Katherine  Dangerfield  was  buried  six  years  ago,  KathensM 
Dangerfield  cannot  be  here.  My  mind  is  made  up."  He  roM 
with  the  air  of  one  who  shakes  off  a  burden.  "  I'll  wonder  no 
longer.  No  possible  harm  can  come  of  it,  and  it  will  put  an 
end  to  this  juggling  ghost-seeing — this  mystification.  Illdo  ii. 
And  I'll  begin  the  first  thing  to-monow  morning." 

He  took  his  leave  and  went  home.  It  was  a  brilliant  sum 
mer  night,  and,  as  he  neared  the  fields,  he  stopped  and  looked 
suspiciously  around.  But  if  he  lOoked  for  Miss  Herncastle,  no 
Miss  Herncastle  was  to  be  seen.  It  w%s  long  past  midnight 
when  he  reached  the  Silver  Rose,  but  even  then  he  did  not  go 
to  bed.  He  lit  a  cigar,  and  sat  down  by  the  open  window  to 
smoke  and  think.  The  town  was  very  quiet,  the  lights  all  o'lt 
— th«  Stan  a^d  Captain  O'Donnell  had  the  peace  and  beauty 
of  the  sweet  July  night  all  to  themselves.  He  sat  there,  darkly 
thoughtful,  for  over  an  hour.  When  he  thiew  himself  on  his  bed 
he  had  thought  it  all  out ;  his  whole  plan  of  action  lay  clear 
before  him. 

At  ten  o'clock  next  morning  he  began.  He  took  his  way 
through  the  town,  to  that  pleasant  cottage  adjoining  the 
churchyard  wherein  Katherine  Dangerfield  six  years  ago  had 
died. 

"  I  have  warned  her,"  he  thought,  "  and  she  will  not  be 
warned.     She  must  take  the  consequences  now." 

A  family,  named  Wilson,  resided  in  the  cottage  at  present 
— that  much  he  had  ascertained  at  his  inn.  They  had  takes 
possession  the  very  week  in  which  Mr.  Otis  had  left,  and 
had  been  there  ever  since.  Mrs.  Wilson,  a  rosy  little  matrOA 
answered  the  door  in  person,  and  ushered  her  military  visitor  at 
once  into  the  parlor.  Captain  O'Donnell's  business  with  Mrs. 
Wlson  was  very  simple.  He  understood  that  the  seivan^ 
woman  who  had  lived  in  the  family  of  Mr  Otis,  six  years  igo^ 
was  now  in  the  service  of  Mrs.  Wilson.  His  business  was  with 
^t  servant — could  he  see  her  a  moment  or  two  in  private  ? 

TW  little  mistress  of  the  cottage  o^>encd  two  bright  brown 


.«.i- 


H 


rt 


f:'>.| 


ii 


4it 


^NiGifT   AND  J^AdA, 


in  RUiprise,  but  answered  readily  in  the  affirmative  VU. 
meant  Dorcai.  of  course — Dorcas  had  come  to  her  with  the 
house,  and  Dorcas  was  in  tht'  kitchtn  at  prt:sent,  and  would 
wait  npon  the  gentleman  at  once. 

Mrs.  Wilson  went  and  Dorcaf  came — a  stoif:,  eMerly  womaB^ 
wifii  an  intelligent  face. 

'*  I  wish  to  obtain  a  few  particulars  concerning  the  stiddet 
death  of  a  young  lady  in  this  house  six  years  ago,"  the  chasseui 
began,  (:limging  into  his  subject  at  once.  *'  You  remember  her, 
of  course?     Her  name  was  Katherine  Dangerfield." 

Yes,  Dorcas  remembered  perfectly  well,  remembered  aa 
though  it  were  yesterday.  She  had  come  to  the  cottage  late 
in  the  evening — a  cold,  dark  winter  evening  it  was — to  see 
the  sick  young  man,  Mr.  Dantree.  Mr.  Otis  himself  had  let 
her  in.  The  uejf.  thing  she  heard,  half  an  hour  later,  was  Mr& 
Otis  scream.  Had  rushed  in.  Miss  Dangedield  was  lying 
then  on  the  sola,  white  and  still,  and  Dr.  (Iraves  said  she  was 
dead. 

''You  saw  her  dead?" 

**  Yet,  poor  dear,  and  a  beautiful  corpse  she  made,  calm,  and 
white,  and  peaceful,  and  looking  more  as  though  she  were 
asleep  than  dead." 

"  How  long  was  she  kept  here  before  she  was  buried  ?  "  the 
soldier  asked 

"Only  two  days,  sir,  and  she  looked  lovely  to  the  last  I 
remember  her  well,  lying  in  her  coffin,  vith  flowers  all  round 
her  like  marble  or  waxwork,  and  misses  a-crying  over  her  and 
master  with  a  face  like  white  stone.  I  saw  it  all,  sir,  saw  the 
coffin-lid  screwed  down,  saw  her  carried  out,  ?'nd  a  fine, 
respectable  funeral  she  had — all  the  gentry  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, fX>ox  dear  young  lady." 

**]rfumph!"  Captain  O'Donnell  said,  knitting  his  brows. 
Catherine  Dangerfield  had  died  then,  and  Miss  Hemcastle  had 
notJiing  whatever  to  do  with  her,  in  spite  of  all  the  astoiuiding 
ceincidences.  "  One  question  more,  my  gooct  woman ;  ho^ 
long  after  the  funeral  was  it  that  Mr.  Otis  left  this  place  fbt 
London?" 

"  About  a  month,  sir — ye«,  j>\st  a  month.  I  think  they  would 
have  gone  sooner,  but  for  the  unexpected  am>«l  of  his  cousin, 
the  sick  young  lady  from  Kssex." 

Captain  O'Donnell  had  risen  to  go.  At  th?»«f  last  words  h« 
s^iddenly  sat  do^rvn  again. 

"  The  «ick  young  Iswiy  from  ¥.s.'^'f%       ^h  !  I  ^^baxik  this  tnay  )m 


I 


rm<ifTT  AS'D   PAGE, 


419 


irith  th« 
d  would 

WORUA) 

suddet 

chasseiu 
liber  her, 

)ered  aa 
lage  late 
—to  see 
f  had  let 
ras  Mr& 
rag  lying 
she  was 


:almf  and 
she  were 

pd?"  the 

last     I 
all  round 

her  and 
■,  saw  the 
a  fine, 
neighbor- 
is  brows. 
:astle  had 
stoimding 
(lan;  how 
place  fbt 

hey  would 
lis  cousici, 

wordi  he 

lia  tniiy  btf 


I  wsnt  to  hear.     When  did  yon  t^y  the  sick  yuung  lad^ 

"  Oa  the  very  identical  night  of  ihe  funeral,  sir,  and  most  "incx 
pected.  I  bad  gone  to  bed,  and  misses,  she  catne  to  my  rooiu 
next  morning  before  I  was  up,  all  white  and  in  a  tremble,  anti 
•ayi  to  me, '  Dorcas,  get  up  at  once  and  heat  water  for  a  ba^h ; 
and  then  she  sat  down  in  a  chair,  looking  fit  to  drop.  1  aake^ 
her  if  any  one  was  sick,  and  she  said  ycs,  a  young  lady  who  liad 
come  in  the  night,  a  niece  of  here  from  Kssex,  and  who  was 
goivig  to  stop  with  them  a  fc»r  days.  She  begged  me  to  keep  it 
a  lecret.  The  young  lady  was  weak -like  in  her  intellect,  and 
they  would  be  obliged  to  confine  her  to  her  roon».  I  promised 
not  to  speak  of  it,  for  misses  she  looked  trrtnbling  and  frightened 
to  death  almost.  And  so  she  was  all  the  lime  the  strange 
young  lady  was  m  the  house." 

"  How  long  was  that  ?  " 

**  Not  quite  a  fortnight,  sir  ;  and  a  sight  of  bother  she  made 
— all  her  meals  took  up  to  her  room,  and  misses  a-trotting  up 
and  down  all  day  long,  a  waitinj^  upon  her  herself." 

"  What  was  she  like — this  young  lady  ?  " 

Dorcas  shook  her  head. 

"  That  I  couldn't  tell,  sir.  I  never  laid  eyes  on  her,  least- 
wise except  once.  Master  and  misses  they  kept  waiting  on  her, 
All  day  long,  and  misses  she  slept  with  her  in  the  same  room  at 
night." 

"  But  you  saw  her  once  ?  " 

**  Yet,  sir,  but  it  was  by  an  accident,  and  at  night.  I  didn't 
see  her  face.  She  never  stirred  out  all  day  long,  and  at  night  1 
used  to  hear  sounds  of  footsteps,  and  doors  softly  0]^>ening  an4 
ihutting.  One  night  I  watched,  I  heard  the  house  door  shut 
no/Uy,  and  directly  after  I  espies  master  walking  in  the  back 
gSLrden  with  a  lady  on  his  arm.  It  was  a  cloudy  sort  of  a  night, 
and  I  couldn't  see  her  very  plainly — 1  couldn't  see  her  face  at 
all.  She  was  tall,  and  dressed  in  dark  clothes,  and — but  lliia 
was  only  a  notion  01  mine — if  Miss  Dangerfield  hadn't  fcecD 
dead  and  buried,  I  should  have  said  the  height  and  the  figure 
were  like  hers." 

The  blood  rose  dark  and  red  over  the  sun-browned  Ike*  <j<l 
the  African  soldier.  For  an  instant  his  breath  seemed  Curly 
taken  away. 

"Well?"  he  said  in  a  tense  so.*^  of  wh-n^^r, 

Dorcai  look'i^d  at  him  in  surprise. 

*  Well   eir."  she   5viid.  *'  ihe  very  tt«nt  njght   «ftcar  xhM  tt»f 


490 


KSIGHT  AND    PAGB, 


'?ii 


"i 


\      ; 


rick  jrouDg  Udy  ran  away.  I  don't  know  whether  the>'  haA 
been  keeping  her  against  her  will  or  not,  but  in  the  dc4<l  o^ 
DJI^t  she  ran  away.  When  misses  awoke  next  morning 
■he  ftrand  the  bed  empty,  the  door  unlocked,  and  Miss  Clis 
(they  called  her  Miss  Otis)  gone.  She  screamed  out  like  on€ 
crazy,  and  ran  down  in  her  night-clothes  to  master's  room.  > 
ttw  him  as  he  came  out,  and  except  when  he  looked  at  Mif 
Dangerfield  dead  in  her  coffin,  I  never  saw  him  wear  such  a  fiMr« 
I  declare  it  frightened  me.  He  searched  the  house  and  the 
garden,  but  she  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  Then  he  set  off  fof 
the  station,  and  discovered  (I  heard  him  tell  his  mother  so)  th^X 
a  tall  young  lady,  dressed  in  black  and  closely  veiled,  had  gone 
up  to  London  by  the  very  first  train.  That  same  day,  he  got  a 
telegraph  dispatch  from  London,  and  he  went  up  at  once.  He 
came  back  in  three  days,  looking  dreadfully  gloomy  and  out  of 
spirits.  His  mother  met  him  in  the  hall  and  said,  *Well, 
Het^^,  is  she  safe  ?  *  in  a  flurried  sort  of  a  way,  and  he  pushed 
her  before  him  into  the  parlor,  and  they  had  a  long  talk.  Miss 
Otis  never  came  back,  and  two  weeks  after  master  and  mistress 
went  up  to  town  themselves  for  good.     That's  all,  sir." 

It  was  quite  enough.  Captain  O'Donnell  rose  again ;  his 
grave  fare  had  resumed  its  usual  habitual  calm  ;  he  had  heard 
all  he  wanted — more  than  he  had  expected.  He  pressed  a  half 
sovereign  into  Dorcas'  willing  palm,  bade  Mrs.  Wilson  good- 
morning,  and  departed. 

His  face  was  set  in  a  look  of  fixed,  steady  determination  as 
he  quitted  the  cottage  and  returned  to  Castleford.  He  had 
taken  the  first  step  on  the  road  to  discovery — come  what  might, 
he  would  go  on  to  the  end  now. 

The  middle  of  the  afternoon  brought  Lanty  LaiTrrty  to  Scars 
moo^  Park  with  a  note  from  the  captain  to  Miss  Rose.     It  was 
©nly  a  brief  word  or  two — saying  he  had  gone  up  to  London  b) 
^e  mid-day  train  and  would  probably  not  return  for  a  couple  ue 
^ys. 

Miss  O'Donnell  was  in  her  room,  suffering  from  a  sevi^e  ^- 
tack  of  nervous  headache,  when  this  was  brought  her.  She 
look4»d  at  the  bold,  free  characters — then  pressed  her  face  down 
among  the  pillows  wth  a  sort  of  groan. 

"  And  I  intended  to  have  told  him  all  to  day,"  she  said^  "  •? 
1  should  have  told  him  long  :igo  if  J  had  not  been  a  cowaM. 
To  think — to  think  that  Miss  Herncastlr  should  have  knowa 
from  the  first  Ah  1  how  shall  I  ever  dare  te)I  Redmond  th< 
pitifnl  itorr  of  my  folly  and  disobedience." 


4Sf 


dcACl  O^ 

loming 
iss  Otis 
ike  cno 
rom.  J 
at  Mit 

and  tht 
!t  offfcf 
so)  thJU 
ad  gone 
he  got  a 
ce.     He 
id  (rat  of 
,  «WeU, 
e  pushed 
k.    Miss 
mistress 

lain ;  his 
lad  heard 
sed  a  half 
ion  good- 
nation  as 
He  had 
lat  might, 

to  Scars 
It  was 
ondon  b] 
couple  4* 

Rev«*te  at' 
ler.  She 
ace  down 

said,  "»p 
coward- 
ye  known 
mond  th« 


KNiGHT  AND  PAGE, 


TliAt  day-  -Wednesday — passed  very  quietly ;  it  was  ttir 
treacheioai  lull  that  precedes  all  stcmis.  Miss  Henicastle  kepi 
her  room ;  she  was  putting  still  a  few  finishing  touches  to  thai 
lovely  page  dress.  Late  on  Wednesday  eveuing  came  fix)ni 
town  a  large  box  addressed  to  Major  Frankland ;  my  ladj  ^nd 
the  governess  alone  knew  that  it  contained  Count  Lara's  co» 
tume.  My  lady  was  on  her  best  behavior  to  her  husband — gc 
to  the  masquerade  she  was  resolved,  and  brave  all  consequences 
3ir  Peter  might  never  find  it  out,  and  if  he  did — well,  if  he  did 
k  would  blow  over,  as  other  storms  had  blown  over,  and  noth 
ing  would  come  of  it 

There  were  others  who  judged  differently.  Some  inkling 
of  what  was  brewing,  something  of  what  Sir  Peter  had  sai(^ 
reached  the  ears  of  Lord  Ruysland,  and  Lord  Ruysland  had 
ventured  in  the  most  delicate  manner  to  expostulate  with  his 
willful  niece.  The  game  was  not  worth  the  candle — the  mas- 
querade was  not  worth  the  prire  she  might  pay  for  it  Bettei 
humor  Sir  Peter  and  his  old-fashioned  prejudices  and  throw 
over  Mrs.  Everleigh. 

Ginevra  listened,  her  eyes  compressing — a  gleam  of  invinci 
ble  obstinacy  kindling  in  her  eyes.  She  was  one  of  those  people 
whom  opposition  only  doubly  determined  to  have  their  way. 

"  That  will  do.  Uncle  Raoul.  Your  advice  may  be  good, 
but  I  should  think  your  three-score  years'  experience  of  this  life 
had  taught  you  nobody  ever  yet  relished  good  advice.  I'll  go 
to  the  Everleigh  party — I'll  wear  the  page  dress  and  snap  my 
fingers  at  Sir  Peter  Dangr  field.  His  threats  indeed  !  Poor 
little  manikin  1  if  s  rather  late  in  the  day  for  him  to  play  the  r6le 
of  Bluebeard.     I  shall  go." 

The  earl  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  gave  it  up.  He  nev^^i 
argued  with  a  woman. 

"  Certainly  you'll  go,  my  dear — J  knew  perfectly  well  hoir 
useless  remonstrance  would  be,  but  Cecil  would  have  it.  Go, 
by  all  means.  Whatever  happens  i  shall  have  done  my  duty. 
Let  us  hope  Sir  Peter  may  never  hear  it." 

"  Your  duty  I  The  Earl  of  Ruysland's  duty  I "  his  niece 
laughed  contemptuously.  "  1  woiKlcr  if  all  that  i)aterraal  solici 
tude  is  for  me  or  himself?  If  Sir  l*eter  turns  nie  out  of  Scais 
wood,  you  must  follow.  Uncle  Raoul !  The  dress  is  made,  an<* 
my  promise  given.     I  shall  go  to  the  inas([uorade." 

Thursday  came — that  delusive  quiet  still  reigned  at  Scar 
wood.     When  the  afternoon  train  from  !. ondon  rushed  into  th^ 


Cantleford  station  there  appear'  '1 


amonjf 


\\f^  passmgcT?  1,'4|> 


4M 


rmCHT  AND  PACE. 


Miirf 


|J!t 


■■«s.  ^i 


tainO'Donnell  and  Major  Frankland  ;  and  placid  And  ;  atiictasi 
pacing  the  })latfonTi,  the  Earl  of  Ruysland. 

"Ah,  O'Donnell — back  again.  Vou  don't  knovr,  [  suppose, 
that  your  sister  is  ([uite  indisposed.  I  regret  to  say  such  is  the 
caac — nervous  attack  or  something  vague  of  the  sort.  Hem 
tlo,  Frankland  ?  On  your  way  to  Scarswood  ?  Pemit  me  tt' 
ficconipany  you  there." 

But  the  inajoi  drew  back  in  some  trifling  embarrassmeQi 
He  wasn't  going  to  Scarswood  this  afternoon  ;  to-morrow — al 
— he  intended  to  put  iii  an  appearance.  Would  his  lordship  ht 
kind  enough  not  to  mention  having  seen  him  at  all  ? 

The  earl's  serene  blue  eyes  were  tranquilly  fixed  on  the 
major's  face. 

"  I  understand,"  he  answered.  "  you  are  down  on  the  quiel 
—Sir  Peter  is  to  hear  nothing  of  it  until  after  the  ball  ?  Is  that 
your  little  game,  dear  boy  ?  \  ou  see  1  know  all  about  it,  and 
my  age  and  my  relationship  to  Lady  Dangerfield  give  me  the 
"ight  to  interfere.  Now,  my  dear  fellow,  that  masquerade  aflfair 
Baust  be  given  up." 

He  took  the  younger  man's  arm,  speaking  quite  pleasantly^ 
and  led  him  away. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  took  the  trouble  to  drive  four  miles 
under  a  blazing  July  sun,  over  a  dusty  July  road,  to  wait  five 
minutes  in  a  stuffy  station  for  the  2:30  express,  dear  boy  ?  To 
meet  and  intercept  you — to  ask  you  as  a  personal  favor  to 
myself,  as  an  act  of  friendship  to  Ginevra,  not  to  go  to  this 
fancy  ball  ?  " 

" My  lord,"  mterrupted  Major  P'rankland,  uneasily,  "  am  I 
to  understand  I^ady  Dangerfield  has  rroinniissioned  you  to — '* 

"  Lady  Dangerfield  has  conmiissioncd  me  to  do  nothing — 
has  ordered  me,  indeed,  to  stand  aside  and  mind  my  own  bui»i- 
ness.  All  the  same,  1  am  Lady  Dangerfield's  nearest  male  rel- 
ative, and,  as  such,  lx)und  to  warn  her  of  her  danger.  Failing 
to  impress  her,  I  come  to  you.  As  a  gentleman  and  a  man  ol 
Hcnor — as  an  old  friend  of  poor  Ginevra's,  you  will  perceiT*?  at 
iwace  the  force  of  what  I  say." 

■'  Indeed-  You  will  pardon  my  stupidity  if  1  fail  to  perceive 
it  as  yet." 

"  It  lies  in  a  nutshell.  Sir  Peter  Dcmgerfield  dues  )\>u  the 
iMJnor  of  being  infernally  jealous.  Thai  is  an  old  state  of  thing*- 
— this  masquerade  at  tliat  womajt's  h^use  has  brought  matters 
:o  a  cliniajL  He  ha*  told  Lady  Dangerfield  that  if  she  go^-K 
.-ve  ahpll  not  retaj?:,  ::&\   \v.{  ilcar    KraiilvUn/],  he  niranf.  ;i 


atiictaa 

suppose, 
ch  is  the 
t.  How 
lit  me  v: 

assmeni 

TOW — ai 
rdsbip  be 

I  on   the 

the  quiel 
Is  that 
ut  it,  and 
e  me  the 
ade  affair 

ileasantly, 

'our  miles 
>  wait  five 
>oy  ?  To 
favor  to 
o  to  this 


' 


ly,  "  am  I 
3U  to — " 
nothing- 
own  bupi- 
;  male  rei 
Failing 
a  man  oi 
erc«r/c  at 

3  perceive 

:s  >"i>u  the 
e  of  thing* 
It  matters 
she  goes 


KNIGHT  AND  FAiiA, 


4«S 


. 


Fiwy  are  both  as  obstinate  as  the  very  devil — she  to  go,  iie  lo 

separate  from  he'  if  she  does.  Now  this  is  a  very  serious  stat« 
of  things.  Sh^  is  willfully  blind  to  her  danger,  but  you  will  not 
be.  You  are  the  only  one  who  can  prevent  this  disastrous  ter- 
mination—or  i  you  we  all  depend.  There  is  but  one  thing  fof 
pu  to  do— don't  go.  Stay! — I  know  what  you  would  say^ 
You  have  pi  omised — your  dress  is  in  the  house — Lady  Danger- 
'kid  will  be  offended,  et  cetera.  Granted — but  is  it  not  bettei 
ro  break  a  promise  that  involves  so  much?  Is  it  not  better  to 
remporarily  offend  Ginevra  than  ruin  her  for  life  ?  Frankland, 
is  a  man  of  the  world,  you  cannot  fail  to  perceive  that  but  om 
course  is  open  to  you — to  withdraw.  Trust  me  to  make  your 
peace.  In  three  weeks  she  will  see  from  what  you  have  saved 
her,  and  thank  you." 

The  gallant  major  gnawed  his  military  mustache  in  gloomy 
perplexity. 

"  Confound  the  little  bloke  I "  he  burst  out.  "  It  isn't  that 
I  particularly  care  to  go  to  this  masquerade  junketing,  but  I 
know  Gin — Lady  Dangerfield  has  set  her  heart  on  it,  and  will 
b-;  proportionately  disappointed.  Are  you  quite  sure,  my  lord, 
that  he  means  to  carry  out  his  absurd  threat?  that  he— oh, 
hang  it  all !  he  couldrit  separate  from  her  for  such  a  trifle  as 
^hat." 

"  Could  he  not  ?  "  the  earl  answered  quietly.  "  I  find  you 
don't  altogether  appreciate  the  force  of  such  characters  as 
Pt  ter  Dangerfield's,  The  obstinacy  of  a  mule  is  gentle,  yield- 
ing, compared  to  it.  And,  by  Jove,  Frankland,  in  this  case  he 
will  have  grounds  to  go  upon.  I^ady  Dangerfield,  against  hit 
cypress  onimand,  goes  to  a  masquerade  at  the  house  of  a 
w  xnan  of  doubtful  reputation,  in  male  attire,  and  in  the  com- 
pany of  a  man  who  has  been  her  lover,  and  of  whom  he  is 
monstrously  jealous.  He  warns  her  of  the  consequences,  and 
la  her  nr  id  recklessness  she  defies  them  all.  Egad  !  if  he  doc* 
nin  he'  out  to-morrow  morning,  I  for  one  won't  blame  him 
V'ou  and  Ginevra  will  act  in  every  way,  of  course,  as  your  su- 
^>erior  wisdom  may  suggest.  I  have  no  more  to  say,  only  this 
--if  you  and  she  really  persist  in  going,  I  and  my  daughtei 
shall  pack  our  belongings  and  dej>art  by  the  earliest  train  t^»- 
t«  3now.     I  have  spoken." 

He  turned  to  go.     Still  lost  in  dismal  perplexity,  still  angrih 
pulling  his  ginger  mustaches,  still  gloomy  of  tone  tiie  badger. 
owijor  spoke. 

"  I  say    niy  lord — ^hold  on,  will  you  ?    What  the  deTjr?   ,  r 


V. 


;u 


4^4 


KNIGHT  AND   PAGE, 


iJi-f 


'      i 


r<       ( 


'<;i 


»";^  ■ 


!::;,! 


*•     J 


feilow  Ci)  do  ?  1  can't  go  off  to  ]x)ndon  again,  if  that  b  wliaf 
you  mean — oh,  hang  it  no  I  without  a  word  of  explanation  oi 
excuse,  or  that  sort  of  thing.  I  can't,  you  know — tlie  thing  it 
impossible." 

"  Write  a  note — invent  any  excuse  you  please.  Your  neai 
•5t  relative,  from  whom  you  have  expectations,  is  in  Sfticul 
mortis^  and  demands  your  presence  to  sooth  his  last  houn 
Anything  will  do — say  what  you  please.  She'll  be  in  a  forioo 
passion  at  the  disappointment,  but  you  save  her,  and  virtue  ik 
Its  own  reward,  and  all  that.  I  promise  to  bring  her  to  sef 
matters  in  their  true  light  in  a  week." 

"  My  lord,"  the  major  cried  resolutely,  "  I  must  see  hei 
I'll  tell  her  myself— I'm  blessed  if  1  know  what  But  I  wonV 
go  to  the  masquerade — I  promise  you  //w/." 

He  stalked  gloomily  away  as  he  spoke,  leaped  into  a  fLy,  and 
was  whirled  off  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  The  earl  looked  after  him 
with  a  slight  smile,  in  which  his  habitual  sneer  lurked. 

"  Poor  children — how  vexed  they  are  at  losing  their  toy. 
He'll  keep  his  word,  however — he's  not  half  a  bad  fellow, 
Frankland — a  tailoi-'s  block,  with  an  inch  and  a  quarter  of  brain. 
Nothing  is  farther  from  my  intentions  than  to  pennit  a  rupt- 
ure between  Ginevra  and  her  imbecile  husband,  if  I  can  pw 
vent  it.  At  least  until  Cecil's  prospects  are  defined  moi« 
clearly  ;  and  thai  day  of  reckoning  must  come  very  soon.  Ai 
I  said.  Sir  Arthur  has  run  the  length  of  his  tether — it  is  high 
time  to  pull  him  short  up." 

He  turned  to  look  for  Captain  O'Donnell,  but  Captain 
O'Donnell  had  long  since  disappeared.  He  had  lingered  an 
instaiit  to  speak  a  hurried  word  to  a  disreputable-looking  fellow 
who  had  emerged  from  a  third-class  carriage — a  cockney 
evidently  of  the  lowest  type — a  singular-looking  acquaintance 
for  Redmond  O'Donnell,  the  earl  would  have  thought  had  he 
seen  him.  But  he  had  not  seen,  and  after  listening  to  a  brief 
direction  given  by  the  Algerian  officer  the  fellow  had  touched 
liis  battered  hat  and  slouched  on  his  way. 

And  in  a  very  perturbed  state  of  mind  indeed  Major  Frank- 
land  made  his  way  to  Scarswood  Park.  What  he  was  to  say  to 
aiy  lady,  what  excuse  to  offer,  how  to  get  out  of  his  promise,  he 
had  not  the  remotes*  xlea.  What  she  would  say  to  him  he 
knew  only  too  well  As  the  railway  fly  tlew  along  he  could 
tee  in  prospective  th-;  sliarp  black  eyes  flashing — hear  the 
tKrill  voice  reproaching — the  storm  of  rage  and  disappointment 
w-ith  which  ghe  would  sweeu  from  his  presence  and  order  him 


fl 


tCfilGHT  AND    PAGR 


4»f 


It  li  what 
nation  oi 
e  thing  it 

our  neii 
1  afticul 
Lst  houn 
a  forioa 
i  virtue  \* 
tier  to  sef 

:  see  hei 
ut  I  wonV 

a  fly,  and 
i  after  him 
1. 

their  toy. 
ad  fellow, 
:r  of  braiik. 
[nit  a  rupt- 
I  can  pr« 
ned  moi« 
soon.  Ai 
—it  is  high 

it  Captain 
ingered  an 
king  fellow 
a  cockney 
quaintance 
ight  had  he 
g  to  a  brief 
ad  touche(^ 

a,jor  Frank* 
ras  to  say  to 
promise,  he 
to  him  he 
g  he  could 
— hear  the 
ppointmeni 
'  order  hii» 


AeTer  vc  approach  her  again.  And  their  platonic  frieniihip 
had  been  so  agreeable  and  Scarswood  had  been  siich  a  pleasant 
country  refuge  after  the  London  season.  Confound  the  little 
iealous  baronet,  and  trebly  confound  him.  \VV:at  asses  fonir 
iusbands  made  of  themselves  for  nothing  at  all. 

Wliat  should  he  say  ?  He  reached  the  park  with  thU  ma 
ncutous  question  still  unanswered  and  unanswerable.  Whftiii 
fhould  he  say  ?  He  bade  the  fly  wait — he  wanted  to  be  dnTW 
iMtck  presently  to  catch  the  next  up-train.  What  should  he  say  '* 
Wiih  his  "  inch-and-a-quarter  of  brain  "  in  a  whirl  from  the  un 
wonted  exertion  of  thinking,  he  walked  up  the  avenue,  and  under 
the  King's  Oak  came  face  to  face  with  Miss  Hemcastle. 

She  was  reading — she  was  alone.  Major  Frankland  took 
off  his  cntsh  hat,  all  his  flurry  and  guilt  written  legibly  on  hi& 
u«ually  placid  face. 

"  Aw — Miss  Hemcastle — how  do  ?  Is — aw — is  my  !ady  at 
home  ?  " 

"  My  lady  is  not  at  home,  Major  Frankland ;  and  if  she  had 
been " — Miss  Hemcastle's  large,  grave  eyes  looked  at  him 
meaningly — **yeu  are  the  last  person  she  would  have  expected 
to  see  at  Scarswood  this  afternoon." 

"  Then  you  know—" 

"  I  know  all  about  the  note,  warning  you  not  to  appear  herr 
until  after  the  masquerade.  My  lady  is  absent  to-day,  witk 
Lady  Cecil  and  Miss  O'Donnell,  at  an  archery  party  at  More 
cambe,  and  Sir  Peter  is  in  close  attendance.  Do  you  think  iv 
wise  to  run  counter  to  my  lady's  commands  in  this  fashion  ?  " 

"  Miss  Hemcastle,  I — I'm  not  going.  I've  promised  the  rarl. 
He's  told  me  all  about  the  little  baronet's  flare  i:p,  and  threats, 
and  all  that  nonsense,  if  Lady  Dangerfield  accompanies  me  to 
the  masquerade.  The  party  will  be  a  very  pleasant  party,  no 
doubt,  as  parties  go ;  but  it  isn't  worth  all  that,  and  I'm  not  the 
'  aort  of  man  to  make  family  trouble.  The  earl  wanted  me  to 
rrite  an  excuse,  but  I  ain't  clever  at  that  sort  of  thing.  Gin- 
Lady  Dangerfield — will  be  deuced  angry,  no  doubt,  and  you'U 
deliver  it,  and  take  my  part  as  well  as  you  can,  Miss  Hem 
castle — ^hey  ?  " 

With  vast  hesitation,  many  pauses,  numberless  "  aw's "  and 
*  -sir's,"  much  pulling  of  the  auburn  mustache,  the  major  got 
yai  this  speech.  The  lurking  smile  of  amusement  to  Miss 
Heracaestle's  eyes  he  did  not  see. 

"Major  Frankland s  sentiments  do  him  honoi.  Sir  Peter  if 
:crtiinly  rampant  on  this  point,  and  unpleasantly  in  eamtflt 


4^6 


fCT^IGHT  AND    PAGE 


i, 

L    , 
I  \ 


a:     \ 


\\ 


flere  it  my  book,  Major   brankland  ;  it  will  ttenre  m  a  dcik  t* 
irrite  your  note." 

"  And — aw — yon  think  my  lady  will  make  no  end  o{  a  tow, 
(kHi't  you,  Misi  Hemcastle?"  the  major  asked,  wistfully. 

"  I  think  she  will  be  annoyed,  beyond  doubt.  You  see  the 
drefs  is  very  pretty ;  she  has  quite  set  her  heart  upon  goiof, 
tod  opposition  has  only  made  her  more  detennined.  Here  li 
I  pencil,  if  you  have  none ;  and  the  blank  page  will  do  for  ycisj 
aote." 

With  an  inward  groan  of  apprehension,  the  major  scraw'ri 
:wo  or  three  lines  of  incoherent  excuse — he  hardly  knew  what. 
He  did  not  dare  read  it ;  he  folded  it  up  in  the  correct  cockade 
fiuhion,  and  handed  it  to  the  governess.  The  man  who  hesitate* 
ts  lost ;  he  turned  to  go  the  instant  he  finished. 

"You'll  give  Lady  Dangerfield  this.  Miss  Hemcastle,  and  be 
good  enough  to  explain  that  it  is  solely  for  her  sake,  and  against 
my  will  that  I  don't  go.  Aw — thanks  very  much,  and  good 
day." 

He  bowed  in  his  agitation  with  something  less  than  his  ordi- 
nary exquisite  grace — walked  back  to  the  fly — jumped  into  his 
seat,  and  was  driven  off.  Miss  Hemcastle,  standing  perfectly 
still,  under  the  King's  Oak,  watched  him  out  of  sight,  then  she 
slowly  and  deliberately  tore  the  note  into  minutest  morsels  and 
scattered  them  in  a  little  white  shower  over  the  grass. 

*'  My  lady  shall  not  be  disappointed  of  the  ball  upon  which 
her  heart  is  set,  even  for  your  scruples,  major.  No  jealous 
husband  shall  prevent  my  masterpiece  of  millinery — the  page's 
costume — from  adorning  Mrs.  Everleigh's  ball.  And  whether 
you  are  in  Ix)ndon  or  Castleford,  Major  Frankland,  Count  I.ara 
Khali  dance  with  his  Kaled  to-night." 

My  lady  and  her  party  returned  from  Morecambe  in  time  for 
dinner.  Sir  Arthur  was  in  attendance  upon  I^ady  Cecil,  look 
ing  bored  and  distrait.  Squire  Talbot  was  hovering  in  the  wakf 
^  Rose  O'Donnell,  whose  small  dark  face  had  grown  wanriei- 
ind  thinner  than  evvrr  in  tlie  last  two  days,  and  who  l(X"k  J^d 
nuch  fitter  for  a  sick  bed  than  an  aichary  paity.  Miss  Hern 
castle  smiled  again  as  she  looked  at  her  and  the  baronet — the 
one  shrinking,  the  other  brighteninjf  under  her  glance.  In  dit- 
fsrent  ways  the  spdil  of  her  power  was  upon  bcdi. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  the  package  in  Major  Frankland's 
room  i»:*ould  be  sent  to  the  Silver  Rose  after  ni^tfall  by  one  ol 
the  servants.  "  Don't  disturb  yourself  about  it^  m^  lady,"  Miss 
Hemcastle  had  said  ;  "  ril  attend  to  all  tliat."     She  did  at^eiwi 


ttAJfGhr    4SD   FAGP 


0*7 


of  a  Tow» 

fully, 
u  sec  tbt 
on  goini^ 
Here  u 
o  for  yea: 

•  scrav^'fi 
new  what. 
:t  cockade 

o  hesitate* 

tie,  and  be 
ind  against 
,  and  good 

,n  his  ordi- 
;d  into  his 
g  perfectly 
it,  then  she 
lorsels  and 

pon  which 
*^o  jealous 
-the  page's 
id  whether 
^ount  liara 

in  time  for 
Zecil,  look 
in  the  wakf 
wn  waniie* 
vho  Ux:!  ir; 
Vliss  }icin 
ronet — the 
:e.     In  dil 

i'rankland's 

II  by  one  d 

lady,"  Miss 

did  at^eiuii 


!•  it  1^  qnietly  concealing  the  box  m  her  own  r<>oni  a  litUe  be 
fore  the  archer)'  party  returned. 

Sir  Pctei  came  to  dinner  ;  quietly  but  !?te<i'.iily  he  had  kep* 
his  wife  under  surveillance  ever  smce  hss  discovery  of  the  tnai 
querade.  He  had  shut  up  his  study,  his  beetles  and  b'.'gs— he 
had  forgotten  the  ghost — the  pilgriinige  to  tlic.  cenittery — hii 
interest  in  Miss  Herncastle — in  this  new  int' rt'sl.  He  hadlonf 
groaned  in  spirit  under  his  wife's  tyranny  and  flirtations.  Nov 
or  never  was  the  time  to  bring  them  all  to  an  end.  He  woilfl 
watch  her  as  a  cat  a  mouse,  and  if  in  spire  of  all  she  went  to 
the  masquerade  in  page  attire,  why  go  r,he  should,  and  then — 

My  lady  undei^tood  it  all,  read  him  !'ke  a  book,  and  her  re 
bellious  feminine  blood  rose  instantly  in  revolt     Had  death 
been  the  penalty  she  would  almost  have  braved  it  now.     Go 
•he  would,  but  she  would  be  subtle  as  a  serpent  and  throw  hira 
off  the  track. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  she  was  seized  with  a  head- 
ache, a  horrible  headache,  a  vertigo — no  doubt  caused  by  too 
long  standing  in  the  hot  sun  ;  she  must  go  home  at  once.  She 
came  home  with  the  whole  archery  party  in  her  wake.  She 
was  too  ill  to  dress  for  dinner,  but  she  made  a  heroic  effort  and 
went  down.  At  table  she  could  not  eat  a  mouthful — after  din 
ner  in  the  drawing-room  she  was  absolutely  unable  to  hold  her 
suffering  head  up.  She  musf  retire — a  darkened  room — per- 
fect quiet — a  long  night's  sleep — unlimited  eau  de  cologne  and 
sal  volatile,  these  things  alone  could  restore  her.  !f  they  did 
not,  then  the  family  medical  attendant  nmst  be  summoned  in 
hot  haste  from  Castleford  to-morrow.  Her  husband  looked  at 
her  as  she  arose  amid  a  low  murmur  of  sympathy,  her  hand  to 
her  forehead — not  a  trace  of  rouge  on  the  b^lJow  pallor  of  her 
(ace — with  the  grin  of  a  small  demon. 

"  Let  us  hope  your  headache  will  not  prove  so  serious  ai 
all  that,  my  lady,"  he  remarked.  '*  Your  vertigo  (how  odd  you 
never  had  a  vertigo  before)  I  am  quite  sure  will  be  entirety 
gone  to-morrow." 

"He  means  mischief,"  Miss  Herncastle  thought,  watching 
him  from  her  cover.  "  He  sees  through  her  transparent  ruse, 
and  will  follow  her  to  the  ball.  The  Fates  are  working  for  tnc 
as  well  as  I  could  work  myself." 

She  glided  unobserved  from  the  room  after  my  iady,  and 
joined  her  in  the  violet  boudoir.  A  substantial  repast  was 
spread  here.  Lady  Uangerfield's  appetite  was  unexception- 
•bte-  and  she  had  had  no  dinner,     In  an  inst^jat  every  trace  otf 


'.51' 


'  v 


I*  I 


rNtCHT  AND  PAGE. 


\\     I 


^!^. 


\m 


:  i:   if. 


iif! 


IteaJacke  and  v<^>ti^o  disappeared.  The  door  was  locked,  tht 
heavy  *niitain  oi  violet  cloth  dropped  over  it.  Lady  Dangor 
fteld  sat  down  to  refresh  her  inner  ladyship,  and  Miss  Heni' 
castle  produced  the  exquisite  page  dress.  The  idea  of  doubt- 
ing  Major  Frankland's  appearing  was  too  preposterous  an  idea 
ev«r  to  occur  to  her. 

"  And  you  think — you  are  sure,  Miss  Hemcastle — Sir  Peter 
kai  not  the  faintest  suspicion  ? ''  my  lady  asked,  as  she  roM 
from  the  table,  and  placed  herseif  In  the  skillful  hands  of  her 
governess,  to  be  dressed.  Delphinc  had  been  dismissed  as  nc.^ 
sufficiently  trustworthy.  "  You  are  perfectly  sure  he  SHspecti 
nothing  ?  " 

'*  I  am  perfectly  sure  of  nothing  m  this  lower  world,  except 
that  I  am  in  it,"  Miss  Hemcastle  ti.nswered  coolly  ;  "  but  the 
probabilities  are  he  does  not.  Major  Frankland  is  in  London 
—you  are  ill  in  bed  of  headache — how  then  can  either  of  you 
be  at  the  ball?  And  it  doesn't  seem  likely  he  will  accept 
Mrs.  Everleigh's  invitation  himself  and  go."  Lady  Dangerfie\d 
gave  a  fiunt  shriek. 

"  Good  Heaven,  Miss  Hemcastle !  what  an  idea  1 — Sir  Peter 
go.  Of  course,  he'll  not  go — the  very  idea  is  absurd.  I  don't 
believe  he  ever  attended  a  ball  in  his  life,  and  he  detests  Mrs. 
Everleigh  much  too  cordially  even  to  cross  her  threshold.  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  suggest  such  preposterous  things — I  was 
nervous  enough  before,  you  have  made  me  a  hundred  times 
worse.     Has  3ie  box  gone  yet  ?  " 

"  The  box  is  safely  disposed  of,  my  lady.  Have  no  fears — 
Count  Lara  will  be  there." 

Her  nimble  fingers  flew  over  her  work.  Lady  Dangerfield's 
short  black  hair  was  artistically  curled  over  her  temples  and 
shoulders,  and  the  little  plumed  cap  set  sideways  thereon. 
The  little  high-heeled  shoes,  with  their  glittering  paste  buckles, 
were  on ;  doublet,  hose,  cloak,  rapier,  scented  gloves,  all ;  the 
exquisite  tint  of  rouge  eiven  to  the  cheeks,  the  eyes  darkened, 
all  the  mystic  ceremonies  of  the  toilet  gone  through ;  and  my 
lady,  robed  and  radiant,  looked  in  the  full-length  mirror,  and 
saw  a  charming  vision — all  velvet,  gold  lace,  flashing  buttons, 
carmine,  silk,  and  waving  plumes.  Her  sallow  cheeks  actually 
flushed  under  their  rougt  vegetal. 

"  It  is  exquisite — ^it  is  lovely ! "  she  murmured.  "  I  have 
not  looked  half  so  well  in  anything  for  years — it  brings  my 
wanisg  youth  back — I  fancy  it  will  surprise  even  Jasper.  Now. 
Mill  HemcMtle,  my  cloak,  and  go  dr«*'n  quietly  and  see  if  the 


ICfflGHT    4Sn    PAGH 


43« 


hangar 
Hera- 
doubt' 
in  idet 

r  Fctef 

ic  roM 

of  her 

iasnc^. 

nspecU 

except 

but  the 

London 

of  you 

accept 

igerfie\d 

ir  Peter 
I  don't 
sts  Mrs. 
lold.  I 
—I  was 
;d  times 

fears — 

^erfield's 
pies  and 
thereon, 
buckles, 
all;  the 
arkenedr 
and  my 
rror,  and 
buttons, 
I  actually 

« I  have 
)ring^my 
jr.  Now, 
seeiftbt 


fly  you  engaged  at  Castleford  is  in  waittn{{.  Kind  ^at  if  Sii 
Peter  iw  in  his  study,  too.  Somehow  1  feel  horribly  nervous 
to-night." 

"I  will  ascertain,"  Miss  Herncastle's  soft  voice  answered^ 
as  she  moved  noiselessly  from  the  room. 

H  orribly  nervous.  Yes,  my  lady  was  that.  Was  it  some 
Jim  presentiment  that  with  her  own  hand  she  was  flinging 
twaj^  to-night  all  that  made  the  happiness  of  her  shallow  life  f 
tf  Sir  Peter  should  come  to  the  masquerade — if  he  should  find 
It  out 

"You  shall  not  live  under  my  roof  and  dishonor  it — that  1 
iwea/ ! "  were  these  not  the  words  he  had  used  ?  And  he  ha<l 
been  so  quiet — he  had  looked  so  grimly  in  earnest.  What  i( 
he  found  it  out  ?  What  if  he  kept  his  word  ?  She  shivered  a 
little  under  her  cloak.  Was  it  too  late  yet  ?  Would  it  not  be 
wisest  to  stop  at  the  eleventh  hour,  forego  the  party,  take  ofl 
the  lovely  page's  dress  and  stop  at — 

Miss  Herncastle,  silent  and  swift,  was  back  at  her  side. 

"  The  fly  is  in  waiting.  Sir  Peter  is  in  his  study — the  res* 
still  are  in  the  drawing-room — there  is  not  a  soul  to  be  seen 
Now  is  your  time,  my  lady,  and  make  haste." 

But  still  for  a  second  she  stood  irresolute.  In  that  moment 
one  word  from  Miss  Herncastle  would  have  turned  the  scale 
either  way.     That  word  was  spoken. 

"  Take  one  last  look,  my  lady — ir  it  not  exquisite  ?  Mrs. 
Everleigh  will  be  ready  to  expire  with  envy.  You  look  abso- 
lutely dazzling  in  your  Kaled  dress — you  never  in  your  life 
wore  anything  half  so  becoming — Major  Frankland  will  tell 
you  the  same.     Now,  then,  my  lady,  quick." 

The  scale  was  turned — the  last  hesitation  over.  From  that 
moment  until  the  grand  denouement  came,  LaJy  Dangerfield 
•ever  paused  to  think. 

They  descended  one  of  the  back  stairways — they  met  no 
o«c.  Miss  Herncastle  softly  opened  a  turret  door,  and  they 
glided  through.  They  made  their  way  in  the  dim  starlight 
along  the  shrubbery,  skirting  a  belt  of  dark  woodland,  and 
nined  the  highroad.  In  the  shadow  of  a  clump  of  beechei' 
uie  hired  fly  waited.  A  moment  and  my  lady  was  in :  another 
and  she  was  off  as  fast  as  a  stout  cob  could  carrv  hfr  ^'cn  the 
road  to  ruin." 

In  Mrs.  Everleigh's  stuccoed  mansion,  in  Mrs.  Eveileigh'« 
gorgeous  reception  rooms,  half  a  h  mdred  lamps  shone  da2  tlingly 
o'er  (air  women  and  brave  men.    It  was  the  usual  scene-  nuns 


4^ 


KNIGHT   AN  I.     f'AdA. 


^^ 


Fill i  \ 


)    [• 


"I'I'f 


and  demons.  *'  F'riairs  of  orders  gray"  m  juxtaposifion  m\xk 
brigands,  hoodrt!  Capuchin^?  flirtingwi'ii  !uilW?t  (biircirS;  I.cvan 
tine  pirates  waltzing  with  Queen  T^li/ubeth  ;  negroes  rind  ftowcr- 
g^irls,  Indian  chiefs  and  Spanish  donnrts-  all  the  jn md  person 
ages  of  history  and  opera,  a  motley  and  bewii(lerii)g  spectacle 
— ail  masked.  And  over  all  clashed  out  the  music.  The  aii 
wu  heavy  with  perfume,  the  eye  grew  blind  with  ligr  t,  wid 
dauzle,  and  color. 

Among  tJl  the  brilliant-robed  throng  there  was  not  one  who 
excited  more  attention  than  the  little  glitt'jring  page,  Kaled. 
But  where  was  Lara?  An  hour  had  pa^.sed  since  the  page's 
arrival,  but  the  page's  master  was  aosent  still.  And  under  thf. 
silken  mask  an  angry  flush  was  rising  at  length  over  the  page's 
face. 

What  could  keep  Major  Frankland  ?  She  flung  herself  into 
a  seat  as  she  asked  the  question — alone  for  a  brief  moment — 
the  first  since  the  ball  began.  "  Did  he  not  come  down  after 
all?  How  dare  he  disappoint  me  so?  And  how  absurd  ' 
must  look — the  page  without  the  knight.     I'll  never — " 

bne  stopped — some  one  had  approached  behind  her  unseer. 
— a  voice  spoke  low  in  her  ear. 

*■'  The  Chief  of  Lara  has  returned  again.  T.ook  up — my 
faithful  Kaled — my  prince  and  paragon  of  pages — and  welcon^e 
your  knight  and  master  ! " 

"  The  Chief  of  Lara,"  in  the  picturesque  dress  of  a  Spanish 
cavalier,  stood  behind  her,  his  mask  over  his  face.  But  for  one 
instant  she  had  not  recognized  Jasper  F'rankland's  well-known 
lones.  "  No — don't  reproach  me,  Ginevra,  as  1  see  you  are 
gt)ing  to  do,  and  as  I  know  I  deserve.  1  couldn't  help  it — 
ouly  just  got  down — serious  illness  of  my  grandfather — ought 
♦"c  be  by  his  bedside  at  this  instant.  Ah — a  redowa — my 
iAvorite  dance.  Come,  Kaled,  let  me  look  at  you.  A  gem  ol 
a  ilress  indeed — it  is  exquisite.     Come." 

He  whirled  her  away,  but  for  the  first  time  in  her  experience 
ll^e  major's  step  and  hers  did  not  agree.  For  the  first  moment 
or  two  they  absolutely  could  not  dance  together — then  Count 
Lara  seemed  to  catch  it,  and  they  whirled  away  to  the  admirsu 
tiion  of  all  beholders. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-night,  Jasper?"  Ladjr 
f )angerfiel d  asked,  half-pettislily.  "  Your  voice  sounds  strange^ 
^ou  don't  dance  as  you  used — and — and  something  .iVjat  vow, 
{  don't  know  what,  looks  unfamiliar.  Take  off  your  niask,  sir, 
a£,d  let  me  see  yon*" 


KNn.f/r    4l^n    f'AdF. 


'i^J 


.cvan 
n.w«r- 
erson 
xtacle 
l.c  ail 
t,  fend 

le  who 
Kak'd. 

page's 
Icr  the 

page's 

i\{  into 
nent — 
rn  afU'i 
)sur(l   ' 


unseer. 

jp — my 

relcon>e 

Spanish 
for  one 
1-known 
you  are 
lelp  it— 
— ought 
wa — niy 
L  gem  ol 

perience 
moment 
n  Count 
;  admira^ 

»"    Lady 

>  strange, 
yjat  vou, 
nask,  «u. 


*'  Not  likely,  A  page  must  never  presuui!;  li>  co:iifiii<r :  ti.a 
ifiAster.  Re:it  assurt-d  that  I  ain  I,  aii<!  .it  .-,iii)p<«r  nc  wil  un 
msisk,  and  hccoiue  the  cynosure  of  all  i-'/fs.  (M'j'fvra,  vour  tlre»« 
is  absolutely  perfect — there  is  nothing  to  ofjual  it  here  :o-nighl.** 

A  passing  domino  caught  the  halt"  whispered  words,  »,hd 
paused  to  watch  them.  I'roir.  that  nioincnt,  wheievei  tli^ 
tnight  and  page  went  the  bhuk  domino  ^va^  sure  lo  follow. 

It  was  an  indescril)al)ly  lirilliant  party,  there  was  harilly  j 
'iriGHJent's  cessation  in  the  wiiirl  of  dan  'ing—  the  hours  Hew  by 
like  minutes — and  Lara  and  iiis  nage  never  [)L.rt'-d  companj 
for  an  Instant,  whether  they  wah/ed  or  walked,  whether  the) 
sought  the  cool  stillness  of  halUit  balconies  and  boudoirs,  o/ 
plunged  into  the  whirl  i>f  maskers.  And  still  all  unnoticed-, 
tiealthily  and  sure  as  Fate  itself,  the  black  domino  followed, 
and  watched,  and  bided  his  time. 

They  wandered  into  a  conservatory  at  last,  filled  with  thf 
nio(mlight  of  shaded  lamps,  where  the  music  came  faint  ant> 
far-off,  and  tall  tropic  plants  reared  their  rich  heads  far  abovt;. 

"How  hot  it  is — how  noisy  they  are,"  Kaled  murmured 
sinking  into  a  moss-green  seat.  "  I  nuist  take  off  my  mask — 1 
shall  look  as  red  as  a  milkmaid  when  we  unmask.  In  the  ten 
minutes  that  intervene  between  this  and  supper,  let  me  try  and 
get  cool  if  I  can." 

He  stooped  over  her  with  the  whispered  imbecility  he  knew 
was  expected  of  him,  and  fanned  her  with  a  palm  leaf. 

"Shall  I  fetch  you  a  water-ice?"  he  asked;  "it  will  help 
you  to  feel  cool.  You  will  have  it  eaten  before  we  go  to 
riupper." 

She  assented  languidly.  Her  mask  lay  in  her  lap,  and 
watching  her  with  glittering  eyes,  the  spectral  don)ino  stood  in 
fihadow  of  the  j)alrTis.  Count  Lara's  garments  brushed  him  a? 
He  went  by — but  Lara's  eyes  had  noticed  him  trom  the  first.  Ii; 
»  second  Count  Lara  had  vanished.  My  lady,  looking  Hu.^hec 
und  handsome  in  her  boyish  travesty,  fanned  herself  in  tht 
cool  shade  of  a  myrtle-tree.  And  '-ehind  the  palms  the  dominc 
iraiced. 

Both  waited  for  what  never  came — the  retiun  of  Count 
l-ara. 

The  moments  passed  on — the  summons  to  supper  was  given 
—the  masqueraders  were  crowding  to  the  su])per-room,  and 
"till  Count  Lara  did  not  a}>pear.     In  a  storm  of  wTatl:  and   /a 
patience,  my  lady  lingered — twice  tonight  he   had  made   hcj 
wzxX  — what  did  he  mean  ?  " 


m 


Hill 


iS^ 


4  /iAjfJt  hficnr's  wo»kr 


She  lote  at  length  when  patience  had  r.eased  to  be  a  t  irtue, 
and  taking  the  proflcred  ann  of  an  ogre,  niaile  her  way  to  th« 
BUpper-tablei.  The  lar.ghiicr  and  excitement  were  at  their 
•rildest— everybody  was  unmasked — everybody  was  making  the 
most  astounding  discoveries — everybody  ▼«  present—every 
bodr  bit  the  exasperating  Count  of  Lara. 

NOf  far  or  near  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  A  dozen  voicet* 
tailed  his  name ;  no  one  could  tell  what  had  become  of  him. 
Infuriated,  mystified,  my  lady  looked  up  and  down.  What  n  w 
it  she  saw  that  made  her  leap  from  her  seat  with  a  low  ciy  of 
fear,  that  drove  the  blood  from  her  blanched  cheeks  ?  She 
saw— for  one  instant,  amid  the  crowd,  the  face — not  of  Majot 
Frankland,  but  of  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  looking  at  h^.  Foi 
one  instant  only,  then  it  too  disappeared. 


•r 


CHAPTER  XX. 


A    DAKK   night's   WORK. 


HEN  my  Lord  Ruysland  had  finished  his  little  pater- 
nal  lecture  to  Major  Frankland  and  saw  that  gallant 
officer  ride  off,  he  turned  to  address  Captain  O'Don- 
nell,  and  found  to  his  surprise  that  Captain  O'Donnell 
was  gone.  The  chasseur,  indeed,  had  not  lingered  a  moment. 
With  his  straw  hat  pulled  low  over  his  eyes,  he  strode  away  at 
once  through  the  town  and  to  his  quarters  in  the  Silver  Rose. 
The  slouching,  cockney-looking  individual  to  whom  he  had 
iix>ken  at  the  station  was  at  the  Silver  Rose  before  him,  and  as 
the  captain  passed  through  the  inn  yard,  sat  on  a  bench  in 
friendly  converse  with  l^anty  Lafferty. 

'*  Dull  ? "  Mr.  Lafiferty  was  repeating  as  his  master  passed 
through ;  "  troth  ye  may  say  it's  dull  wid  sorra  sowl  to  spake 
to  maybe  from  momin  till  night.  But  thin,  on  the  other  hand, 
.'here's  the  hoith  o'  aitin  and  dhrink^n  goin  on  lAte  an'  airly, 
and  niver  •*.  lian's  turn  to  do  half  yer  time,  not  to  spake  ov  the 
barmaid  an'  the  cook,  two  as  purty  an  as  pleasant-spoken  cia« 
iiurs  as  ye'd  wish  to  kiss.  It's  a  comfortable  life  entiicly  U 
would  be  %H  the  town  was  only  Ballynahaggart  instead  of  C 


4  DAMJT  NlGHr\S    tVOK/T. 


43J 


assed 
pake 
land, 
airly, 
)v  the 
1  cia. 
ely  U 


deftwC      Rut  arrah  I  ihure  we  can't  have  iverything.     Ry  the 
hokey,  here's  the  masther  himself,  long  life  to  him." 

"All  right,  Lanty,"  his  master  respundcd,  pa:ising  through 
with  a  nod,  and  taking  no  notice  of  Lanty's  coinp.inion  *'  How 
■re  they  all  at  the  Park  ?     Seen  Miss  Rose  lately  ?  " 

*'  I  was  at  the  Park  above  this  morning,  Mi.sther  RedinoixJi 
and  1  taw  her  ladyship,  the  lord's  daughter,  an'  she  was  axin 
fuf  >'cr  honor,  and  bid  me  tell  you  the  young  misthress  wan 
avci  an'  above  well" 

O'Donnell  merely  nodded  agaim  and  hurried  on.  It  was  a 
rery  long  time  since  his  sister  had  been  "  over  and  above 
well,"  and  he  could  see  plainly  enough  it  was  more  a  mind 
than  a  body  diseased ;  and  that  this  Oaston  Dantree — the 
scoundrel  who  had  wrecked  another  noble  life — was  in  some 
way  the  cause,  he  knew  now,  thanks  to  Nfiss  Hemcastle 
But  that  he  was  or  had  been  Rose's  actual  husband,  had  never 
for  an  instant  occurred  to  him. 

I^anty  Lafferty  resumed  his  occupation  of  brushing  a  pair  oi 
his  master's  tops,  and  his  conversation  with  the  stranger  from 
I^ondon,  interlardins  work  and  social  converse  with  a  little 
music.  His  rollickmg  Ir  ih  voice  came  through  the  open 
windows  to  his  master's  ears  : 


"  'It  «M  M  •  wladv  Bight.  akMt  tw»  aTdack  b  th« 
iUIifaklMiM«lgltt.a£-^ 


Bad  scran  to  ye  fur  topt,  ihure  the  art  o'man  wouldn't  git  ye 

the  color  he  loikes  I 


"•AaLriahkdM 

Oh,  thin,  divil  fear  him  but  he  was  tight — shure  it's  a  wakenevs 
\il  his  counthryrnen  have.  It's  meself  wud  like  a  dhrop  av 
{^otiiecn  this  minute,  fresh  from  tke  still — me  very  heart's  brok  t 
a  drinkin'  the  beer  they  have  in  these  parts,  an'  me  gettin  that 
^t  in  it,  that  sorra  a  waistcoat  I  have  in  the  worruld  that'll 
button  on  me  good  or  bad.  Oh,  blissed  hour  !  will  I  iver  %*x 
the  day  whin  all  his  sodgerin'  an'  his  diviltry  in  Algiers,  and 
Amehky,  and  England  wiU  be  over,  an'  meself  back  in  O'Don- 
nell Castle  on  the  ould  sod  once  more  ?  Talk  about  grandeur 
— about  yer  Windsor  Castles,  an'  yer  St.  James'  Palace — b? 
me  word,  the  two  av  thim  thegither  couldn't  houIH  a  candle 
to  Castle  O'Donnell.  Sixty-three  rooms — sorra  iess — a  sli«l»ir 
full  of  cattle — llic  best  blood  in  the  cuuiilry,  a  pack  o'  hounda 
»  b\itl«r  ID  Silk  stockinga,  an'  futmin  as  high  as  Fin  McCoui, 
It 


;    I   ft 


434 


A  DARK  mCHT'S    WORK. 


v 


f. 


ni? 


,11 


#  ? 


ihc    Irisflfi  giant,    if  ivcr  ye   heerd  av  him.     Whist  *y  gsuoi^ 
ch&mpftgne  for  the  axin',  an'  waitin'  rnnids  that  it  iid  make  y(*» 
mouth  water  only  to  look  at.     If  s  little  I  thought,  six  ysaxa 
ago,  whin  1  left  sich  a  place  as  that,  that  it's  an  English  inn  Itl 
«roiw«  \o.     It's  thini  wor  the  blessed  times  all  out." 

"  Blessed  times,  upoT;  my  life,"  responded  his  listener,  sniok 
kig  philosophically.  ■'  I  say,  Mr.  LatTerty,  there's  ye;  maste 
A  calling  of  yer  " 

Lanty  seized  the  boots  and  made  a  rush  for  his  master's 
?oom.  The  soft,  silvery  gray  of  the  sununer  v,  ening  was  fall- 
iiig  by  this  ilnie,  and  with  his  back  to  the  faint  light,  the  chas 
seur  sat  when  his  man  entered. 

"  Come  in,  Lanty,  and  shut  the  door — perhaps  you  had 
better  turn  the  key.  I  see  you  have  made  the  acquaintance  oi 
that  ftliow  in  the  inn  yard  already." 

"Jist  passin'  the  time  o'  day,  yer  honor.  The/re  civil 
crathurs  thim  English  chaps  mostly,  an'  shure  I'm  not  proud." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  and  it  is  just  as  well  your  pride  has  not 
stood  in  the  way  of  your  sociability  on  the  |)r(jsent  occasion,  2^ 
you  would  have  to  make  his  acquaintance  whether  or  no, 
i_Anty,  can  yon  keep  a  secret  ?  " 

"  A  saycret  is  it  ?  Upon  me  conscience  thin  that  same's  a 
question  I  didn't  expect  from  yer  fa(her's  sun.  A  saycrel ! 
Arrah,  Misther  Redmond,  is  there  a  bad  turn  ye  iver  did  since 
ye  were  breeched  that  I  don't  know  ?  Is  there  a  bit  av  divil- 
ment  ye  iver  wor  in  (an'  faith  yer  divilment  was  past  countin') 
that  I  didn't  know  betther  than  me  prayers,  and  did  I  iver  tell 
— did  I  now  ?  Faith  it's  late  in  the  day,  so  it  is,  to  ax  me  sich 
a  question  as  that." 

"Well,  Lanty,  don't  be  indignant — of  course,  I  know  you 
can.  Then  I  want  you  to  keep  quiet  this  evenifig,  and  per 
fectly  sober,  renicmber;  to  retire  to  your  room  early,  but  nol 
fo  go  to  bed.  About  half-past  eleven,  when  the  town  is  quiet 
and  every  soul  in  the  inn  gone  to  sleep,  take  your  shoes  irs 
your  hand,  steal  out  as  though  you  were  a  mouse,  and  wait  f« 
a\c  under  the  clump  of  larches  beyond  the  inn.  You'll  find 
four  London  acquaintance  there  before  you — I  brought  hiiu 
Jo  \  and  1  want  you  both  to-night.  I^anty,  did  you  ever  he.ii 
S}{  a  resurrectionist — a  sack-'em-up  ?  " 

"  Sorra  hear.     Is  it  anything  to  ait  or  dhrink  ?  " 

"Nothing  to  eat  or  drink.  A  resurrectionist  is  one  w.ho 
opens  graves,  steals  dead  biKltes  and  sells  thrin  tu  mcdlc^J 
«tnd«rQts  f_»  dissection  " 


e  v<»» 

4 

yea:* 
[in  10 

smok 

n&ste 

aster's 

is  fall 

chas 

u  had 
mce  of 

e  civil 
>roud." 
las  not 
;ion,  a5 
or   no, 

ime's  a 
lycrel ! 
d  since 
V  divil- 
luntin') 
^er  tell 
ne  sich 

)w  you 
id  per 
)ut  nol 

s  quiet 
loes  in 
rait  fa; 
•11  find 
ht  hiiu 
sr  heai 


le  'Sfho 
nedlc^J 


XI    DAMjr  N/G^T'S    WOUK. 


435 


"  TTiC  Lord  bctune  us  and  harm  ! " 

"  And  this  fellow  you  have  been  talking  tf>  all  the  "vening  is 
i  i>n;fi,.-;.->io!!al  sack-'cm-iip."  The  chasscur'b  gravity  nearly 
^a\e  way  ai  l.ant/s  look  of  horror.  "Never  mind,  my  good 
?"ellow,  he  won't  sell  you  for  dissection  ;  and,  as  I  said  before, 
fou  must  be  civil  to  him  despite  his  profession,  for  I  have 
U ought  him  down  on  purpose  to  open  a  grave  this  very  night, 
vr.d  yo>]  are  to  come  along  and  help." 

'*  Open  a  grave  !     Oh,  king  o'  glory  !  " 

"  It's  all  on  thv-r  square,  Lanty — no  stealing  dead  bodies,  no 
selling  to  doctors- — I  haven't  quite  got  to  that  yet.  But  I  have 
reason  to  believe  a  very  great  fraud  has  be^n  perpetrated,  and 
that  very  great  mischief  may  come  of  ii.  To  prevent  that  niis^ 
chief  I  open  this  grave,  open  the  coffin,  see  what  it  contains, 
and  replace  it  exactly  as  1  find  it  before  morning.  You  undi^^r- 
stand?" 

Understand.  Mr.  Lafferty  was  staring  at  his  master  with 
an  expression  of  blank  horror  and  consternation.  Open  a 
grave  in  the  dead  of  night  to  see  what  a  coffin  contained.  AH 
the  '•*  divilment "  of  the  past  j)aied  into  insignificance  beside 
this  crowning  act.     Was  his  master  suddenly  going  mad  ? 

"  1  iian't  explain  any  further,  and  it  is  not  necessary  for  you 
to  know.  Be  on  hand,  as  I  said :  keep  sober,  make  no  noise, 
-•^•d  let  me  find  you  with  Joggins  under  the  larches  at  half  past 
eleven.  They  keep  early  hours  here — all  will  be  still  by  that 
lime.     Now  go,  and  mind,  not  a  word  of  this  to  a  soul." 

Lanty   Lafferty  went — his  mouth  had  fallen  open,  and  he 
forgot  to  shut  it  his  eyes  were  like  full  moons,  that  blank  ex 
[jression  of  ccnnternation  still  rigid  on  his  face. 

**  Open  a  grave  !  Oh,  wirra  !  Afther  twelve  o'clock  !  The 
Lord  look  down  on  me  this  night  1  To  see  what's  in  a  coffin  ! 
Arrah  !  is  it  taken  iave  av  his  sinsis  intirely  he  is  !  Faith  it's 
itlle  ihyme  or  raison  there  iver  v/as  wid  him  or  wan  av  his 
)anie>  but  av  this  uisi'nt  bang  Bannagher  J  Bannagh^r  I  upon 
me  sowl  it  bangs  the  divil." 

But  to  rebfl,  to  disobey,  Mr.  Lafferty  did  not  dream.  Had 
nis  master  informed  hun  it  was  his  painful  duty  to  murder  so/nc 
one,  and  he  (Lanty)  was  to  assist  at  the  sacrifice,  that  faithful 
hcnchmin  might  have  groaned  under  the  awful  duty  assigned 
him,  but  he  would  have  obeyed.  And  he  would  obey  no¥/, 
iithough  a  legion  of  ghosts  should  ri'^p  m  their  winding -sheen 
iA)  warn  ihem  liom  their  dreadful  deed. 

The  evening  gray  decTjened  into  dark-     Ten  c^me — the  stars 


I'.  '  i) 


r,; 


4J6 


Ji  DAJOt  UrCMT^S  WOltK. 


I:' 


ti  < 


iii^  i 


'iii- 


1; 

• 

i 

\     ■.;■!! 

\ 

1 

u 

'A 

^^■■Al^ 

irere  out,  but  there  was  no  moon.  Captain  ODonnell  sat  a$ 
hii  open  wiidow  and  smoked.  To  him  this  last  act  was  but 
an  act  of  simple  duty  to  save  his  friend — the  one  last  proo( 
needed  in  the  strange  discovery  he  bad  made.  No  harm 
fhonld  be  done — the  coffin  would  be  opened,  and  replaced 
precisely  as  he  had  found  it,  the  grave  re- closed.  And  then 
Miss  Hemcastle  should  hear  all — should  confess  to  the  mai. 
Ae  had  made  love  her  the  whole  truth,  or  he  would. 

At  half-past  ten  the  inn  was  already  d?rk  and  closed  up  for 
Ihe  night ;  there  were  but  few  guests,  and  these  few  kept  primi 
tive  hours.  At  eleven  not  a  lipht  was  to  be  seen.  Still 
CyDonnell  sat  at  his  window,  looking  out  at  the  dim  starlight, 
smoking  and  waiting.  Hali-past  eleven,  and  punctual  to  the 
moment,  he  saw  Lanty  stride  across  t!ie  inn  yard  and  disappeai 
in  the  shadow  of  the  larches.  The  time  had  come.  He  had 
removed  his  own  twots,  and  with  t^iem  in  his  hand,  made  his 
way  out  of  the  room,  down  the  stairs,  and  through  the  door 
Lanty  had  noiselessly  unbcUed.  Not  a  creature  was  to  be 
seen — the  whole  town  seemed  to  be  still  and  dark.  He  seated 
himself  on  a  bench  and  drew  on  his  boots,  then  he  made  luj 
way  at  once  to  the  place  of  tryst. 

Lanty  was  at  his  post — upright  as  a  ramrod,  silent  as  a 
tomb,  and  giving  his  companion  a  wide  berth — Mr.  Joggins, 
with  a  S9&ck  over  his  shoulders  containing  spade  and  pick, 
and  instruments  for  opening  the  coffin — spoke  as  he  drtw 
near. 

"  Here  we  are,  noble  captain — up  to  time,  and  not  a  minute 
to  be  lost.  Lead  the  ▼;aj',  and  we  foUers  and  gets  to  business 
at  once." 

Keeping  all  in  the  shade  of  hedges  and  way^.de  trees,  with 
an  uncomfortable  feeling  in  spite  of  his  consciousness  of  dat) 
that  this  nighf  s  work  was  an  underhand  anc  dastardly  thing 
tfie  chasseur  led  the  way.  One  bela'^'^d  pedestrian — on* 
•ejector's  gig  they  met,  no  more,  nnd  tht,  trees  screened  then^ 
even  from  them.  They  walked  ik)  rapidly  that  they  were  il- 
^h«  churchyard  before  the  Castleford  steeples  tolled  twelve.  As 
\^  hx%X  sonorous  boom  of  the  midnight  hour  tolled  out,  Lanty 
I  aff<r"tv  crossed  himself  devoutly,  and  looked  fearfully  at  thf 
white  tombstones  gleaming  in  the  ghostly  light 

Redmond  ODonnell  strode  steadfastly  along  between  th* 
rows  of  graves,  the  lonely  paths,  until  under  its  solitary  tree  he 
paussd  at  Kathenne  Dangerti-ld's.  His  lips  were  set,  hit 
e(yes  stem — for  food  or  ill  he  woulct  kn(?w  the  truth  soon^ 


;llsat  9fi. 
was  bnt 
5t  prool 
\o  harm 
replaced 
nd  theit 
the  maL 

;d  up  f07 

pt  primi 
;n.  Still 
starlight, 
il  to  the 
lisappeai 
Hehax] 
made  his 
the  door 
as  to  be 
le  seated 
made  lu* 

ent  as  a 

Joggins, 
nd  pick, 
he  drew 

a  minutf 
business 

[rces,  with 
of  dat) 
lly  thing 
l^ian — on  • 
led  then- 
were  IL 
;lve.  As 
Jut,  Lant) 
|ly  at  thf 

reen  th* 
tree  he 
set,  hit 


-rVM  ZMMGTH  OF   HIS    TETHRR,^ 


437 


"  Tliis  is  the  grave,"  he  said,  curtly.  "  Go  to  work ,  I'li 
keep  watch." 

The  resurrectionist  opened  his  bag,  produced  his  shovels. 
gave  one  into  the  reluctant  hands  of  Lanty,  and  set  to  work 
rith  professional  rapidity  and  dexterity.  The  two  men  worked 
with  a  will  until  the  perspiration  stood  in  great  drops  on  theii 
faces.  O'Donnell  had  brought  a  brandy  flask,  and  gave  theni 
copious  libations,  until  even  I^anty's  drooping  spirits  arose* 
No  sound  but  the  subdued  noise  of  the  shovelling  clay — noth* 
ing  living  or  dead  to  be  seen.  O'Donnell  worked  with  them — 
there  was  no  need  of  watching — and  at  last,  far  below  :n  the 
faint  light  of  the  stars,  the  coffin  lay  revealed. 

The  men  lay  on  their  spades,  wiped  their  faces,  and  drew  a 
long  breath.  Then  the  resurrectionist  and  Lanty  raised  the 
coffin  between  them — the  damp  clay  clinging  to  it,  making  it 
weighty — and  placed  it  at  Redmond  O'Donnell's  feet. 

At  last  !  He  drew  one  long,  hard,  tense  breath — his  eyes 
gleamed.  "  Open  it,"  he  said,  in  a  con^t^osed  sort  of  voice,  and 
Mr.  Joggins  produced  his  screw-driver,  and  set  to  work  once 
more.  The  screws,  one  by  one,  were  removed — the  last  lay 
in  the  i)alm  of  Joggins'  hand — nothing  remained  but  to  lift  the 
lid  and  see  either  the  mouldering  remains  of  Katherijie  Danger- 
fit  Id,  or — 

He  made  a  sign,  Joggins  raised  it,  all  three  bent  Airward  to 
look.  There  was  a  simultaneous  exclamation  from  all  as  they 
bent  again  to  reassure  themselves.  The  late  rising  moon, 
which  had  been  struggling  through  the  mists  of  coming  uiorn- 
ing,  shone  suddenly  for  a  moment  full  upon  the  ghastly  object 
before  them,  and  lit  it  brightly  up. 

They  saw  what  Redmond  O'Donnell  had  expected  to  i^.^-- 

AM  EMPTY  COFFIN 


«< 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


THl   LENCrm   OF   HIS   TKTHKiL 


HAT  fateful  July  night,  destined  to  be  marked  h>rcve» 
the   calendars   of  Lady  Danger  ^eld  and  Captain 


m 


Redmond  O'Donnell,  was  fated  likewise  to  be  marked 
wilii  a  red  cross  in  that  of  Sir  Arthur  'rt<:<4emia. 
♦Sir  ArlhiiT  Trcgenn»ha»  mn  the  h^n^th  of  hi«  tether  "  L<ir^ 


■ 


ill 
III 


\\^  f 


[4 

M 

4S« 


**TME   LENinif   OF   HIS    TETHER'' 


iOi! 


M  ■ 


la  ■     ' 


' 


Rnysland  had  calmly  said  to  himself  while  pacing  the  CjuUe 
ford  station ;  "  it  is  high  time  to  pull  him  short  up." 

Fur  Lord  Ruyslund  to  decree  was  to  act,     'fhis  very  night 
Sir  Arthur  should  receive  his  "  short  pull  up." 

He  waited  placidly  where  he  was  ;  he  saw  Major  FranklaiM? 
rctan.,  still  gloomy  and  in  the  sulks,  saw  him  depart  :tn  hour 
?ater  by  the  Pailiamrntary  train,  and  not  until  then  did  he  sum 
■won  the  fly,  and  give  the  order  to  Scarswood  Park.  There 
«^a»  no  hurry,  the  young  baronet  was  with  the  Park  party  a! 
Morecambe ;  they  were  to  return  to  dinner,  not  sooner.  He 
was  going  to  play  his  last  great  stake  to-night.  If  he  failed,  his 
whole  future  might  be  told  in  one  brief,  forcible  word — ruin , 
but  not  one  pulse  beat  quicker,  not  one  sign  of  agitation  oi 
eagerness  marred  the  serenity  of  his  handsome  patrician  face. 
iVs  coolly,  as  deliberately  as  he  had  pronounced  sentence  of 
doom  upon  young  O'Donnell  six  years  ago,  he  was  going  to 
hring  Sir  Arthur  to  his  bearings  to-night. 

The  archery  party  returned ;  separated  for  a  brief  space, 
and  met  again  at  dinner.  My  lady  was  seized  with  that  distress 
ing  headache,  and  disappeared  immediately  after,  Miss  Hern 
castle  in  her  wake.  Sir  Peter  in  a  few  minutes  followed  suit. 
Miss  O'Donnell,  looking  pale  and  fagged,  made  her  excuses 
and  sought  her  room.  Lady  Cecil  insisted  upon  accompanying 
her.  Squire  Talbot  cut  short  his  visit  and  moodily  departed 
Lord  Ruysland  and  Sir  Arthur  were  left  alone  before  it  was 
quite  half-past  nine.  Fate  seemed  inclined  to  take  sides  witii 
the  peer.  Two  minutes  after  Talbot's  departure  he  opened 
the  duel,  and  fired  the  first  shot. 

''What  is  this  about  a  letter  from  Cornwall  and  your  depart 
are  to  morrow,  Sir  Arthur  ?  I  heard  you  telling  I^ady  Danger^ 
6eld  at  dinner  bu^  did  not  quite  catch  your  drift.  Business,  I 
.^ippoise  ?  " 

"  Yes,  business — business  too  long  deferred.     Pennwaldei 

lole  me  a  week  ago  urging  me  to  return.     There's  a  feves 

Among  my  people,  there  have  been  mining  accidents  and  mxidli 

distress.     It  is  greatly  to  my  discredit  that  1  have  neglected  na? 

Anty  so  long." 

"  Humph  I  then  you  positively  leave  us  to-morrow  ?" 

"  I  positively  leav;^  to  morrow.  I  wish  I  had  gone  las' 
*reek." 

He  s.a!d  it  moodily,  drumming  ^'ith  his  fnij^ers  on  the  tmble, 
■v^d  not  lookiiig  &t  his  companion. 

'■  %o  do  I,"  I>Drd  Ruyfeland  8j>5>ke  ^avely,  and  with  anw9nl«4f 


TBE  LEMGTM  OF  HIS  TETHERS' 


459 


;ry  night 

anklaiM? 

Ttn  hour 

he  aiun 
There 

party  a! 
ler.  He 
ailed,  his 
li — ruin , 
itation  oi 
cian  face. 
ntence  of 

going  to 

ief  space, 
Lt  distress 
iss  Hern 
owed  suit, 
-r  excuses 
mipanylng 

departed 
fore  it  was 

sides  witii 
\e  opened 

>ur  depart 
y  Danger- 
Jusiness,  1 

'ennwaldei 

e's  a  feves 

and  muc^ 

rlected  na? 

?" 

jjone  las' 

a  the  Ubk, 


energy ;  "  so  do  I  with  ftU  my  souL    For  the  last  week  Scars 
i#ooa  has  been  no  place  for  you." 

"My  lord!" 

**  It  is  high  time  for  me  to  speak — a  false  delicacy  hat 
restrained  me  too  long.  I  would  indeed  prove  unworthy  the 
dying  trust  of  my  dearest,  my  truest,  my  best  friend,  your  dead 
fiither,  if  I  held  my  peace  longer.  To-night  1  will  epeak,  bf 
the  consequences  what  they  may — to  night  I  will  do  my  duty^ 
however  distasteful  that  duty  may  be.  I^ong  before  youi 
return  to  this  house,  if  return  you  are  mad  enough  to  do,  I  ana 
Cecil  will  have  gone,  and  it  is  neither  my  wish  nor  my  intention 
that  we  three  shall  ever  meet  again.  My  daughter's  health 
demands  change — she  is  falling  into  low  spirits — 1  will  take  her 
to  Scotland  to  the  Countess  of  Stratheam's  for  the  winter.  1 
merely  mention  this  that  you  may  make  your  farewells  to  her 
final  when  you  part  to-morrow." 

A  flush  rose  up  over  the  blonde  face  of  the  Cornishman,  a 
deep  permanent  flush ;  his  lips  compressed,  his  eyes  did  not 
leave  the  table.  Guilt,  shame,  contrition  were  in  his  counte- 
nance, and  guilt  held  him  silent.  Let  Lord  Ruysland  say  what 
he  might,  he  could  not  say  one  word  more  than  he  deserved. 

"  I  see  I  do  not  take  you  by  surprise,"  his  lordship  coldly 
went  on ;  "I  see  you  are  prepared  for  what  I  would  say.  How 
bitterly  I  have  been  disappointed  in  you — of  all  I  had  expected 
from  your  father's  son — of — I  may  say  it  now  on  the  eve  oi 
parting  forever — of  the  plans  I  had  formed— of  the  hopes  J  had 
cherished — it  would  be  idle  to  speak  to-night.  Hopes  and  plans 
are  all  at  an  end — your  father's  dying  wish  binds  fm  no  longer 
since  you  have  been  the  first  to  disregard  it.  But  still  for  your 
father's  sake  I  will  speak.  On  his  death-bed  he  asked  me  to 
stand  m  his  place  toward  you.  Hitherto  I  have  striven  to  do 
ao — hitherto  I  have  held  you  as  my  own  son — all  that  too  f 
changed.  You  have  deliberately  chosen  to  become  infatuat  d 
with  a  woman  of  whom  you  know  nothing — except  that  she  is 
your  inferior  in  station — deliberately  chosen  to  throw  us  ill 
over,  and  fall  in  love  with  a  designing  adventuress." 

That  deep,  angry  red  still  burned  on  the  baronef  s  (ace,  hi« 
tips  were  still  resolutely  compressed,  his  eyes  still  tixed  u^c 
the  table.     At  the  last  words,  however,  he  suddenly  looked  up. 

*'  Designing  adventuress  1 "  he  repeated,  slowly.  "You  use 
strong  words,  Lord  Ruysland.  Of  course  you  do  not  make 
mch  a  statement  as  that  upon  mere  suspicion." 

**J^  not     I  condemn  no  one  upan  mere  luspickm.    TtmX 


440 


^THE   LENGTH  01*  hIS    TETHERS' 


I'd: 


fei: 


Hi' 


J 


^ 

^  i     : 

'•{ 

1.       1;         , 

' 

1  s'  * 

k  1     , 

4 

1  li  /' 

J,? 

1  sttfpect  Miff  Hemcastle  of  some  deep,  mischievous,  latent 
(»bjec*  in  coming  here,  is  true ;  that  I  suspect  her  of  maliciously 
working  upon  that  poor  little  superstitious  fool,  Sir  Peter,  and 
hit  fears,  and  of  playing  fjtiost  for  his  benefit,  is  also  true.  But 
let  that  go — it  has  nothmg  to  do  with  you,  and  for  your  sake 
amply  1  speak.  You  have  haunted  Miss  Herncastle  like  her 
rery  shadow  from  the  moment  you  met  her  first — for  her  yoa 
IMive  pointedly,  almost  rudely,  I  ha(!  said,  neglected  and  ove^- 
tooked  all  others.  There  was  but  one  way  for  this  to  end  with 
A  man  of  your  high  sense  of  honor — in  marriage.  Before  that 
disastrous  consummation  is  reached  I  lay  a  few  plain  facts 
beforeiyou.     AUerward  you  will  do  as  you  please." 

He  took  from  his  pocket-book  a  little  packet  of  papers,  and 
spread  two  of  them  out  upon  the  table. 

"  Be  kind  enough  to  glance  over  these.  Sir  Arthur.  tTiey 
»re  the  testimonials  of  character,  and  the  references  given  by 
Miss  Herncastle  in  London  to  T-.ady  Dangerfield." 

StiL  dead  silent,  the  young  Comishman  took  them.  The 
testimonials  were  carefully  worded,  the  references  were  to  a 
Mrs.  I^awton  of  Wilton  Crescent,  and  a  Jonas  Woodwidge, 
esquire,  of  St  John's  Wood.     He  read  and  pushed  them  back. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  in  a  compressed  voice. 

"  Read  this  also."  The  earl  pushed  another  letter  across  to 
him.  "  I  wrote  that,  as  you  see,  to  my  solicitor,  asking  him  to 
call  upon  Mrs.  Lawton.  You  have  read  it.  Now  read  his 
answer." 

He  pushed  a  third  letter  across.     For  the  third  time  the 

baronet  read. 

"  Lincoln  Inn,  London,  July  39th. 

"My  Lou»: — la  compliance  with  your  demand  I  called  at  Wilton 

'reacent  at  the  number  given.     No  Mrs.  Lawton  lived  there,  or  had  ever 

hred  there.     I  next  called  at  St  John's  Wf  od ;  a  Mr.  Jonas  Woodwidgt 

ImT  resided  there  about  a  year  ago,  but  has  emigrated  with  his  whole  fam- 

tf  to  Aastralia.     This  is  all  the  information  I  have  been  able  to  dbtaaa. 

"  I  am,  my  lord,  etc" 

Sir  Arthur  laid  down  the  letter.  The  flush  had  faded  frou 
ftif  face,  leaving  him  very  pale. 

"  It  is  plain  to  be  seen  by  any  one  not  willfully  blind,  that  the 
references  are  forged,  by  Miss  Herncastle,  of  course,  for  he? 
own  ends.  If  I^ady  Dangerfield  had  taken  the  trouble  to  seeh 
^era  and  find  this  out  for  herself,  no  doubt  her  very  clever 
governess  would  have  been  prepared  with  some  plausible  story 
if)  ^ccotiQ^  S*r  it     This  much  I  must  certainly  Mf  |br  Mlit 


♦•  Ttm   LRffGTR  OF   ///S    TRTrfAk.' 


4'^ 


ciously 
er,  and 
:.     But 

ur  sake 
ike  her 
lieryoo 
id  ove^- 
nd  with 
ore  that 
facU 


in 


ers. 


and 


They 

given  by 

n.  The 
ere  to  a 
odwidge, 
;m  back. 

across  to 
5  him  to 
read  his 

time  the 

ily  agth, 

at  Waton 

had  evof 

Voodwidg« 

whole  fam- 

to  dbtaia. 

ded  frour 

I,  that  the 
for  he? 
to  scfih 
;ry  clever 
ible  story 
for  MiH 


Hemcactle — she  is  one  of  the  very  cleverest  women   I  ?vci 
tact    Do  you  need  farther  proof  that  she  is  a  ilesigirng  advcnj 
uress  ?     Let  me  tell  you  what  ray  own  eyes  have  ^een — ^di 
Icient  \i\  itself  to  cure  you  of  your  folly,  if  this  so:t  of  folly  ii 
ever  to  be  cured." 

'     He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  looking  sternly  at  Sir  Aitlixir  tit 
ting  like  a  culprit  in  the  dock  before  him,  and  went  on. 

"  It  was  the  very  night  before  Sir  Peter  saw  the  ghost  uudct 
Uie  King's  Oak,  of  which  more  anon.  It  was  a  hot  night,  bril' 
'iant  moonUght,  and  it  is  a  failing  of  mine  that  1  can  never 
sleep  well  on  very  bright  moonlight  nights.  It  was  past  eleven 
vhen  I  went  up  to  my  room.  I  knew  it  was  useless  to  go  to 
!)ed,  so  instead  I  sat  down  to  write  half  a  dozen  letters.  It  was 
half-past  twelve  when  I  finished  the  last — I  lit  a  cigar  and  sat 
down  by  the  open  window  to  smoke  myself  into  sleepiness  if  I 
could.  The  stable  clock  struck  one,  still  T  felt  no  inclinatic  n 
loward  drowsiness.  While  I  still  sat  there,  to  my  surprise,  \ 
saw,  at  that  hour,  a  woman  and  man  crossing  the  fields  ai  -d 
approaching  Scarswood.  If  you  have  noticed,  and  beyoi-d 
doubt  you  have,  Miss  Herncastle  possesses  a  very  stately  wa  k 
— a  very  commanding  figure.  I  knew  her  instantly — 1  als<j, 
after  a  moment  or  two,  recognized  the  man.  Of  him,  howev<  /, 
it  is  needless  to  speaJc.  He  accompanied  her  to  tke  ve  y 
house  ;  they  parted  almost  directly  under  my  window.  1  heaid 
him  promise  not  to  beCray  her.  She  appeared  to  he  absolute  <y 
in  his  power.  Wiien  he  left  her  she  stood  and  watched  him  oil 
of  sight.  All  this  was  nearly  about  two  in  the  morning,  mini, 
when  everybody  supposed  the  governess  to  be  in  bed  ai«d 
asleep.  How  she  got  in  I  don't  know.  She  came  down  tl « 
next  morning,  looking  as  self-possessed  and  inscrutable  as  evei 
My  suspicions  were  aroused,  and  I  wa'ched  again  the  followirj 
night.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  as  surelj  as  I  tell  you,  I  saw  hei 
steal  softly  under  my  window,  a  few  n'inutes  before  midnight, 
and  take  her  post  under  the  King's  Oak.  The  gallop  of  Sii 
Peter's  horse  couid  be  distinctly  heard  on  the  road.  She  wore 
a  long  dark  mantle,  and  as  he  rode  ip  the  avenue  1  saw  hex 
fling  it  off  and  stand  before  him  all  in  white — her  hair  flowing, 
hei  eyes  fixed.  What  followed  you  know.  She  picked  up  her 
cloak  and  made  her  way  back — how  Heaven  knows.  I  teD 
fou  the  simple  truth — to-morrow  I  shall  ♦♦i-l  it  to  uil  the  houM 
— to-morrow  Miss  Herncastle  quits  Scarr-wood,  and  fr.revcr. 
To-niflht  1  warn  y&u^  Arthur,  my  lad — nw  son  almost.  Pau»e 
while  It  *M  yet  time — giv«  op  thit  mineral' le  design in^;  woman. 
It* 


'^S I 


Ik 


\L 


(542 


**rfrF  r.p.ffGTH  Of  nrs  TFTHnn^ 


r'.' 


'k\ 


and  forever.  Do  mot  bring  disgrace  on  your  *\va'\  father — on 
your  honorrd  name — and  lifelonK  misery  on  youiself.  Go  to 
Cornwall — go  abroad — <io  anything — anything,  only  sec  Misi 
Hemcastle  no  more."" 

The  earl's  voice  broke — grew  actually  husky  in  the  intensity 
*A  hi»  emotion — in  the  perfection  of  his — acting.  And  still  Si? 
Mrthur  sat  like  a  stone. 

*'  It  has  been  a  bitter  blow  tome — a  blow  more  bitter  thau 
I  can  say.  Rut  I  have  learned  to  bear  many  hittor  things  ir 
my  life — this  is  but  one  more  keen  disappointment  added  to 
the  rest.  It  will  be  better  perhaps  that  we  do  not  meet  to- 
morrow— let  me  say  it  now — good-by,  and  may  H**aven  blese 
you,  Arthur." 

He  rose  and  grasped  the  young  man's  hand  Sir  Arthur 
arose  too — quite  white  no"v,  and  looked  him  full  in  tlie  face. 

*•  One  moment,  my  lord — then  good-by  if  you  will.  All  you 
hvuvc  said  I  have  deserved — no  one  can  feel  how  1  have  fallen 
from  honor  and  manhood  more  than  I.  Whether  it  is  still  uk) 
hXo.  to  repair  my  great  fault  must  rest  with  you.  What  I  have 
returned  to  England  for — what  \  came  to  Scarswood  for — you 
must  surely  know.  T  sharne  to  speak  it.  It  was  to  see  and 
know  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  and  if  she  could  so  far  honor  me,  make 
her  my  wife.  On  the  night  I  ft; at  met,"  he  paused,  and  spoke 
the  name  with  a  sort  of  effort,  "  Miss  Hemcastle,  I  had  fol 
lowed  the  Lady  Cecil  into  the  boudoir  to  place  my  fate  in  her 
hinds.  Of  the  spell  that  seemed  to  seize  ne  from  that  mo- 
ment, yon  know  only  too  well — it  is  a  sort  of  madness  that  1 
suppose  few  escape.  For  a  time  I  was  b'.ind — I  saw  no  dangei 
— lately  my  eyes  have  been  opened  to  my  own  guilt.  There 
is  but  one  who  can  be  my  wife — whether  or  no  I  have  wronged 
her  too  greatly  to  ask  her,  you  may  decide.  If  so,  then  I  leavr 
England  the  moment  my  Cornish  business  is  settled — if  not'' 
he  paused.  "  It  shall  be  as  you  say,  my  lord."  He  folded  his 
a^rns,  very  white,  very  stem,  and  awaited  hi',  answer. 

The  bound  that  battered  old  organ,  the  earl's  heart,  gave  ai 
th*!  words  !  He  was  saved  I  But  his  imn<ovabIf"  face  remained 
AS  immovable  as  ever. 

"  You  are  but  mortal,  Arthur,  and  Miss  Hemcastle  is  a  mos- 
attractive  woman.  Without  possessing  a  single  claim  to  lx;»uty 
she  is  a  woman  to  r'iscniate  men,  where  the  perfect  fact  of  « 
ffoduess  niiglit  fail  She  is  a  Cuce,  whose  pDver  all  ^nuM  feci 
It  is  not  too  late,  I  hope,  I  trust ;  and  y*;t  Cecil  is  ver^ 
pPGfid     If  the  CSA  forgive  and  Accept  you,  /  can,  with  all  m| 


"  Tii»  fjiji'/Grfi  OF  frrs  rmt/h^ 


w* 


rr—  OB 

Go  to 
:  Misi 

tensity 
itill  Si? 

jr  thai5 
lings  ij 
Ided  to 
eet  to- 
n  bless 

Arthur 
face. 
All  you 
e  fallen 
;tiU  U)() 
;  I  have 
3r — you 
see  and 
e,  make 
d  spoke 
Kad  fol 
e  in  hei 
riat  mo- 
that  1 

dangei 

The»T 

vronged 

I  leavp 

if  not  " 

IdeO  bis 

j^avc  ai 
Mnainec 

3  a  mos'' 
iK'RUty 
li,r.e  of  « 
u*.i  feci 
is  vt»-r| 
h  aiU  VOL} 


r4..«it.     I  thjill  not  say  gtHKJ-by,  then,  bul  gi>oil  lugiil  arid  au  re 

He  left  hin.  before  Sir  Arthur  r.uuhl  -.\^vj.k  kfi  him  alone  in 
ihe  brightly  ht,  empty  drawing-room,  lie  slo(Hi  irresolute,  then 
turned  and  followed  the  >  arl  from  tlic  room. 

Now  was  the  time — ni  ,v  or  never  ;  let  liim  l;ear  his  fate  ai 
vince.  Something  lay  like  a  stone  in  hib  Ijit-asi  ihe  dark,  be 
j(Ui}ing  face,  the  soft  flute  voice  of  Helen  Hernciisfk"  was  befoit 
his  eyes,  in  his  ears.  Of  all  the  women  on  earth  she  was  the 
one  woman  he  would  have  chosen  for  his  wife,  and  Destiny  had 
written  that  he  must  never  look  on  her  face  agair. 

In  passing  the  length  of  the  drawing  room  tu  ihe  door,  he 
had  to  go  by  the  tiny  boudoir,  where,  ou  ihe  'veiling  of  the 
theatricals,  he  had  followed  Lady  Cecil.  The  ciirlains  were  only 
partly  drawn,  and  seated  within,  her  hands  foklufl  listlessly  in 
her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  dim  starlight,  he  saw  once  more, 
as  on  that  evening,  the  earl's  daughter.  As  on  that  evening,  he 
swept  back  the  curtain,  and  stood,  tall  and  dark,  by  her  siilc. 

Her  half-uttered  exclamation  died  away.  Before  she  could 
speak  one  word  he  was  sa\  ing  what  he  had  come  to  say — hur- 
riedly—  incoherently— his  face  all  set  and  stern,  looking  as 
unlike  a  lover  as  can  well  be  conceived.  She  drew  a  little  away 
from  hini,  her  clasped  hands  tightened  over  one  another. 
She  sat  perfecily  still  and  listened — a  sort  of  scorn  ^or  him  -a 
5ort  of  scorn  for  herself — an  utter  weariness  of  everything,  the 
only  feelings  she  was  conscious  of.  She  listened  with  steady 
patience  to  the  end. 

*'  He  was  unworthy  of  her — infinitely  unworthy  ;  ho  esteemed 
and  admired  her  with  all  his  heart ;  it  had  been  his  dying 
father's  wish — he  had  her  father's  consent.  Would  Lady  Ceci? 
Clive  do  him  the  honor  to  become  his  wife  ?  " 

She  looked  up  ai  the  last  words,  flushiiig  red  in  the  darkness. 

**  My  father's  consent,"  she  re[)eaied  slowly.  "  Sir  Arthur, 
t^.ll  me  the  truth.  My  father  has  been  taikmg  to  you  to-night  ? 
He  has— -oh!  how  shall  I  say  it — he  has  ordered  you  to  follow- 
me  here  and  say  this  ?  " 

*'  On  my  sacred  honor,  nc.  /  have  been  talking  to  your 
father — asking  his  permission  to  address  you.  \  have  said 
before  I  am  un  vorthy  ;  if  you  refuse  me  I  shall  feel  I  am 
receiving  the  punishment  1  richly  merit.  If  you  accept  ii;e  i% 
srih  l>e  the  9,\\nhy  of  my  lile  \.o  make  you  hap[)y." 

He  stood  and  v/aited  for  her  answer.  "  Hvi  punishment," 
ib«   lepeiAtcd    with  inward  scorn.     "Aii,  yes.  Si/  Arthur,  ia| 


;  '-it? 


444 


- /WJ    LKNGTH    Oif   Uia    VHTMkX*' 


V 


:|i/ 


m 


m 


r 


D  i\\ 


II 


W     !l 


relbul  wouid  be  a  puoishment  not  over  hard  tt>  tjcai.  '{c 
askimc,  hoping — yei,  hopiu^  Uiough  he  may  not  acknow)f  l^^c 
it  himielff  that  1  will  refuse,  and  I — 1  must  say  yes." 

Shenaust  say  yes — her  whole  future,  her  father's,  depended  oa 
it  She  could  not  brave  his  anger — she  could  not  live  this  life 
forever — what  would  become  of  her  if  she  refused  ?  " 

All  at  once  Torryglen  rose  before  her,  and  Redmond  0'I>«n 
Bell's  face,  bright,  eager,  loving.  Yes,  in  those  days  he  h«4^ 
loved  her.  He  had  changed — she  was  no  more  to  him  do« 
than  his  cousin  Ginevra,  and  while  life  lasted,  she  must  lov« 
him.  No  time  to  shirk  the  truth  now,  she  Iovf.d  Redmon*' 
O'Donnell,  and  this  man  who  stood  beside  her  asking  her  to  bt 
his  wife  loved  Helen  Hemcastle.  What  a  miserable,  travestivu 
world  it  was,  what  wretched  hypocrites  and  cheats  they  all  w-^te 

Why  had  she  not  been  bom  a  fanner's  daughter  to  hoi  J  U(< 
with  a  wholesome,  hearty  interest,  to  love  her  husband  &^d  b^ 
loved  in  return  ? 

''  You  do  not  answer,"  Sir  Arthur  said.  "  I  have  lost  00 
hold  on  your  respect  and  esteem,  as  I  deserve.  LaO/  CecD, 
wiU  you  not  speak  at  least,  and  let  me  hear  my  fate  ?  " 

*'  What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  say?"  she  asked  wearily,  a  touch 
of  pain  and  impatience  in  her  voice.  "  You  ask  ote  to  be  your 
wife.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna — you  are  a  man  of  U uth  and  hon«H 
— ^you  have  lost  neither  my  respect  nor  my  ecieem.  Tell  mc 
tmly — truly — do  you  really  wish  me  to  say  yes  ?  " 

*'  I  really  with  you  to  say  yes.  If  you  do  not  say  it,  thsn  1 
leave  England  again  in  a  month — for  yeaiS — for  life." 

She  drew  her  breath  hard — she  spoke  with  a  sort  of  pa-sp* 

*'  You  will  leave  England  1  Tkeii  there  is  no  one  <elie  jra  j 
will  marry  if—" 

'*  There  is  no  one  elie  I  will  marry  if  you  refuse — no  one." 

He  said  it  resolutely — a  hard,  metallic  ring  in  liis  toc.«,  bit 
Ups  set  almost  to  pain. 

"  There  is  no  one  else  I  will  marry — if  you  refuse  mis  I  leavt 
England.     Once  more,  Lady  Cecil,  will  you  be  my  wif«  ?  " 

"  I — will  be — your  wife." 

The  words  were  spoken — her  voice  faltered— 44er  face  wv 
steadily  turned  to  the  still  moo  ^ight.  It  was  over.  He  took 
her  hand  and  lifted  it  to  his  lips.  How  chill  its  touch,  boi 
•carcely  to  chill  as  the  lips  that  touched  it.  Ilien  it  was  drawn 
•dray  and  she  stood  up. 

"  I  k^ve  here  for  Cornwall,  at  you  knot^ ,  to  be  absent  two  - 
ikitost  three  wedba.    To-mecrcrv,  bd^e  ^  fPt^  •b*U  s|>eak  tc 


AFTRK    THE    MASQVF.HATyR. 


ax.       lie 

sDcled  oil 
:  this  life 

I  QfViviXx 
\  he  Hm^ 
him  Do« 
lust  lov« 
ledmon'' 
her  toht 
:ravesti«Dti 

►  holJ  UN 
d  uA  \it 

e  iOtt  08 

lOy  Cecd, 

It 

jT,  a  touch 
o  be  your 
ind  hon^M 
Tellmc 

it,  than  1 

no  one." 

jtrs  I  leavt 
if«?" 

&ce  wan 
lie  took 
ouch,  but 
ras  drawn 

ent  two- 
ls|ietk  tc 


<4S 


Jl>*rd  Ruysland.  Whatever  1  have  been  i-  the  pail  this  much, 
Lady  Cecil,  you  may  bt^lieve  of  iiic  tliai  you  will  ever  be  ttx-A 
iu  my  thoughts  from  this  hour — that  I  will  make  you  happy  if 
tlie  devotion  of  a  life  can  do  it" 

"  I  believe  you,"  she  held  out  her  hand  of  her  own  accord 
BOW,  '*  and  trust  arid  honor  you  with  all  my  heart.  It  if  Ute, 
and  I  am  tired.     Good-night,  Sir  Arthur." 

"  Good-night,  Lidy  Cecil." 

She  left  him  st*nding  there  and  went  up  to  her  own  room. 
What  a  farce  it  had  all  been — she  half  smiled  as  she  thought  o( 
\\.  love-making  without  a  word  of  love,  a  proposal  of  marriag€ 
without  a  si>ark  of  affection  between  them.  They  were  like 
two  puppets  in  a  Marionette  comedy  playing  at  being  in  love. 
But  it  was  all  over — her  father  was  saved — she  would  make  a 
brilliant  marriage  after  all.  She  had  accepted  him,  and  fulfilled 
her  destiny.  Her  name  was  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate — I^dy 
Cecil  Tregenna. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


AmCR   THS   MASQUKRAOK. 


Y  the  first  train  on  the  morning  following  the  disco?  er^ 
in  the  churchyard,  Mr.  Joggins,  in  a  third-class  car, 
went  back  to  London.     By  the  same  «arly  train  in  a 
first-class  compartment,  Captain  Redmond  O'DonntU 
jrent  up  to  London  also. 

It  was  a  murky,  dismal  morning — this  morning  of  the  first 
of  August;  a  sky  like  drab  paper,  a  sultry  oppressiveness  in 
fke  atmosphere.     It  would  rain  and  thunder  presently,   and 
dear  the  air  ;  pending  the  thunder  and  rain  it  required  an  ab- 
solute effort  to  breathe.    Captain  O'Donnell  had  the  coiii^)art 
raent  all  to  himself,  and  ample  time,  as  the  express  whirled 
him  Ix)ndonward,  to  think.    He  sat  back  with  folded  arms  and 
bent  brows  ;  Miss  Hemcastle's  pale,  set,  cold  face  before  hins 
all  the  way.     His  last  doubt  had  been  removed— the  Kathe 
rine  Dangerfield  of  the  past,  the  Helen  Herncastle  of  the  pre5 
cut,  were   one  and  the  same.     He  knew  as  well  as  he  eve> 
kaew  after  the  whole  truth — the  whole,  straa<(e  story.     Ii  lui 


446 


APTRIt    THH    MASOOKkAUF. 


Wl~ 


'1,1 


r, 


not  heen  death,  that  trance  which  had  held  hci,  but  o^e  <^ 
thnh'.'  mystic  torpors  which  minds  and  bodies  have  fallen  in't 
often  before— a  cataleptic  tr:ince,  so  closely  r<*sen)bling  it* 
•win  sistei,  death,  as  to  deceive  Dr.  (iraves  iUit  the  eycb  oi 
love  are  not  easily  blinded ;  Henry  Otis  had  gin  ssed  from  the 
hrst,  no  doubt,  what  it  was.  Why  he  had  not  spoken- -wh» 
he  had  let  the  matter  go  so  far  as  to  permit  her  to  be  buiiec^ 
:at.her  staggered  the  chasseur.  Was  it  that  he  feared  to  find 
^iis  opinion  of  her  being  still  living  ridiculed  ?  or  that  by  saving 
her  from  the  horrible  fate  of  being  buried  alivt  he  wished  to 
forge  a  claim  upon  her  gratitude  and  love  ?  One  or  tlie  othei 
it  nuist  have  been — if  the  latter,  he  had  certainly  failed,  or  by 
this  time  slie  would  have  bt^en  his  wife.     And  that  same  nigh-I 

-  aided,  no  doubt— he  had  reopened  the  grave  and  taken  the 
still  inanimate  form  from  its  dreadful  resting  i>lace.  He  could 
see  it  all — the  resurrectionist,  the  story  trumped  uj)  for  the 
servant  next  morning,  the  mysterious  sick  young  lady,  who  wai 
yet  able  to  take  midnight  walks  with  the  "  master  "  in  the  gar 
den — the  brooding  of  that  ;  owerful  mind—  that  strong  intellect 
in  the  solitude  of  the  lonely  cottage.  In  that  quiet  upper 
room,  no  doubt,  the  whole  plan  of  the  future  had  been  laid — 
the  whole  plot  of  vengeance  w^ovcn.  Perhaps,  toj,  the  nario)* 
boundary  line  that  separates  madness  from  reason  had  been 
crossed,  and  much  thinking  had  made  her  mad. 

Then  had  come  her  flight — her  exile  to  America-her  the- 
atrical success.  Her  object  in  this  had  prol>ably  been  to  make 
money  to  carry  out  her  plans,  and  she  had  made  it.  She  had 
returned — had  worked  her  way  into  the  family  of  Sir  Peter 
I>angerfield — and  for  the  past  six  weeks  played  her  role  of 
nursery  governest.  But  where  was  her  revenge  ?  What  ha(i 
she  gained  ?  what  had  she  accomplished  beyond  playing  ghost, 
and  frightening  the  little  baronet  nearly  out  of  his  senses  ? 
Was  it  worth  while  to  take  so  much  trouble  for  //uii,  to  risk  so 
much  to  gain  so  little — or  was  it  that  some  deei)x-/,  darker, 
deadlier  plan  of  vengeance  lay  yet  ahead?  l(  so,  then  ^)erhap8 
he  was  in  time  to  frustrate  it,  and  yet,  in  this  moment  there 
ivas  more  of  admiration  than  any  other  feeling  for  Miss  Hem- 
castle  uppermost  in  his  mind.  "  Has  your  own  fate  beer 
ordered  so  smoothly  that  you  should  be  the  first  to  hunt  down 
to  her  ruin  a  poor  wretch  with  whom  life  has  gone  hard  ? " 
The  bitter  pathos  of  her  own  words  came  back  with  a  feeling 
d»i}Ost  like  remorse,    "  With  whom  life  had  gone  haid  "  indeeo 

—  wh/i  had  been  gifted  with  a  great,  gftncrovis,  loyal,  lovin| 


III 


t    J 


AfTEtt    VHR   MASQVRRADR. 


447 


alien  inlfe 
)bling   U* 
»e  eycb  01 
I  from  the 
ken-  -whj 
be  buiici 
ed  to  fir.f^ 
by  saving 
wi^^he(i  to 
•  the  olhei 
led,  or  bj 
iaiiie  nigh-: 
taken  the 
He  could 
up  for  the 
ly,  who  wai 
in  the  gar 
ig  hitellect 
uiet  iippe: 
)een  laid — 
the  nano>* 
had  been 

L— her  the- 
ix\  to  make 
She  had 

Sir  Peter 
ler  role  of 

What  ha(^. 
ying  ghost, 
lis  senses? 
^,  to  risk  s<j 

^.-,  darker, 
len  ^)erhaps 
nicnt  there 
Miss  Hem- 
fate  been 

hunt  down 
t)ne  hard  ? ' 

t.h  a  feehng 
ud"  indeed 

oyal,  lovin| 


ticart,  such  a»  is  rarely  givoki.  to  woman,  a  heart  that  ha.i  been 
hiiikcn,  a  nature  that  had  l;een  brutally  crushed  until  it  h»d 
f'-ecoiue  warped  and  wicked  as  he  Anind  il  now.  One  of  these 
women  formed  of  the  stuff  that  inakes  the  Charlotte  Corday^ 
loans  of  Arc,  or  Lucrctia  !i<jrgia  as  Kate  will. 

*•  Surely  the  saddest,  strangest  fate  that  ever   befell  wotnab 
has  been  hers,"  Iv  niu3id ;  '*  ninety  nine  out  of  a  hundred 
WJUid  have  sunk  under  it — tlicd  of  a  brokcti  heart,  a  ruined* 
life,  or  given  up  the  battle  years  ago,  and  drifted  into  eternal 
obscurity.     But   Katherine  Dangcrfield  is  tlie  hundredth  who 
^nll  fight  to  the  bitter  end.      Kor  Sir  IV'ter  it  r-ignities  little- 
he  richly  deserves  all  she  is  making  him  sulTer  — but  Sir  Arthu 
Tregerma  and   I^ady  Cecil    Clive  are  quite  another   matter 
There  she  must  go  no  further.     This  last  warning  she  shaV, 
have — Otis  may  have  influence  over  her.      If  she  defies  it  then 
I'regenna  shall  know  all.     The  epitaph  of  Maria  Theresa  ap- 
plies well  to  her,  '  Sexa  Jiemina  ingenio  vie*     *  A  woman  bv 
sex,  but  a  man  in  mind.*  " 

He  entered  a  hansom  on  his  anival  at  the  metropolis,  and 
drove  at  once  to  the  residence  of  Dr.  Otis.  It  was  a  cosey  cot 
«age  hanging  to  the  outskirts  of  the  genteel  neighborhood  of 
6i.  John's  Wood,  wherein  the  young  Castleford  practitioner 
nad  set  up  his  ixousehuld  gods.  At  the  entrance  of  the  quiet 
street  he  dismissed  the  cab,  opened  the  little  garden  gate, 
and  knocked  at  the  door.  A  neat  maid-servant  answered 
promptly. 

*'  Was  Mr.  Otis  at  home  ?  " 

The  neat  maid  shook  her  pink-ribboned  head. 

"  No,  sir,  not  at  home — won't  be  at  home  until  to-morrow — 
run  down  to  the  country  for  hi.s  'elth.  IJut  if  it's  a  patient," 
brightening  suddenly. 

"  It's  not  a  patient — it's  business — important  business.  You 
ion  t  appear  to  knov,  I  suppose,  what  part  of  the  country  you? 
virastei  has  gone  to." 

The  pink  ribbons  5»hook  again, 

*•  No,  sir — he  often  ^;oes — the  country  he  calls  it — just  that. 
But  if  it's  himportant  business,  misses,  sh(^s  in,  and  will  see 
you,  1  dare  say.    Wliat  name  shall  1  say  sir?" 

O'Donricll  paused  4.  moment.  Mr.  Otis  had  probably  gone  to 
( !asl!cford  to  see  Misrf  Herncastle,  and  no  doubt  his  name  wag 
f'.sr.ili.or  to  b  '.  mother  and  son  by  liiis  time.  If  he  sent  in  iiie 
;  iuil  she  might  refus-;  to  see  him  ;  he  rather  }>refened  to  take 
her  by  f>iirpri&e. 


n  I 


i 


il    ;l 


!N:f 


44S 


AtfTRM    rJfR   MASQ(rRffADR. 


"  Well,  «r,"  the  young  pergon  in  the  pi  >k  ribbons  inteqKMedi 
impatiently. 

"  Just  tell  your  mistreB«  :;  gentleman  desires  to  9ec  her  fci 
five  minute* — I  won't  detain  her  longer." 

The  girl  vanished — reappeared.  "  Misses  will  sec  yoa 
Walk  fhis  way,  sir,  please,"  she  announced,  and  tLe  next  mo 
ment  he  was  ushered  into  the  parlor  and  the  presence  of  Mrc 
Otis. 

It  was  like  the  parlor  of  a  doll's  house,  so  diminutive,  m 
spirk-artid-span,  so  glistening  neaf:,  and  the  little  old  lady  with 
her  pleasant,  motherly  face,  her  gr«jy  silk  dress,  her  snow-white 
muslin  cap  and  neckerchief,  sitting  placidly  knitting,  was  in 
size  and  neatness  a  most  perfect  match  for  the  room. 

"  You  wanted  to  see  me,  sir."  The  knitting  was  suspended 
for  a  moment,  as  she  locked  curiously  and  admiringly  up  at  the 
tall  figure  and  handsome  face  of  the  Chasseur  d'Afrique. 
"  Pray  come  in  and  take  a  seat." 

"  Thanks,  madame.  It  was  your  son  I  desired  to  see,  but  in 
his  absence  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  do  equally  well  to  say  what 
I  have  come  to  say  to  you.  Mr.  Otis  is  in  the  country,  youi 
servant  tells  me — that  means  the  town  of  Castleford,  in  Sussex, 
does  it  not  ?  " 

Her  knitting  dropped  in  her  lap — the  little  old  lady  gave  « 
gasp.    He  saw  at  once  he  had  guefsed  the  truth. 

"  I  see  I  am  right,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  I  have  come  direct 
to-day  from  Castleford,  Sussex,  myself.  On  the  occasion  of 
your  son's  last  visit  to  that  place  I  believe  1  chanced  to  sec 
him.  It  was  in  the  cemetery ;  you  recollect  the  little  Methodist 
cemetery,  no  doubt — ^just  outside  the  town  and  adjoining  your 
former  residence.  Yes,  I  see  you  do.  1  saw  him  in  the  cem- 
etery talking  to  a  lady  bv  appointment,  1  judge  ;  rather  an  odd 
place,  too,  for  a  tryst,  by  the  way.  The  lady  was  Miss  Helee 
llerncaslle.     Do  you  know  her,  Mrs.  Otis? " 

Again  Mrs.  Otis  gave  a  sort  of  gasp,  her  pleasant,  roi?]' 
n'Other'/  tace  growing  quite  white.  There  were  no  words 
needed  here — her  face  answered  every  question.  He  felt  a 
•I>ecies  of  compunction  for  alarming  her  as  he  saw  he  was  do 
ing,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

"  You  know  Miss  Hemcastlf'  ?  "  he  said,  not  without  a  smile 
At  her  evident  teiTor  ,  "  and  are  Interested  in  her  welfare.  Yon» 
jon  did  her  great  service  once,  and  is  her  nearest  and  n'09» 
confidential  friend  still.  It  is  of  Miss  Ilemcastle  I  have  com* 
lo  l^mdon  U>  speak,  knowing  that  you  and  Mr.  Otis  have  h«a 


iterpoted 

se  her  foi 

see    yoU' 

next  roo 

:e  of  Mrs 

inutive,  m 
I  lady  with 
>now-white 
ig,  was  in 

I. 

suspended 
y  up  at  the 

d'Afrique. 

see,  but  in 
to  say  what 
unti-y,  youi 
I,  in  Sussex. 

ady  gave  a 

ome  dire<;t 
occasion  oi 
need  to  sec 
Methodist 
oining  youf 
in  the  cem- 
ther  an  odd 
Miss  Helen 

lasant,  iwy 
:    no  words 
He   felt  0 
he  was  do 

hout  a  snule 
•Ifare.  Youi 
St  and  n'oai 
have  coni< 
lis  have  ha 


1 


AFTER    THE  MASQUER  AD  F, 


449 


wel&re  at  heart     She  must  leave  Scarswuod,  and  at  once,  oi 
else, — or  else,  painful  as  my  duty  may  be.  Sir  Peter  Dange» 

fictld  shall  know  the  whole  truth." 

The  knitting  dropped  on  the  floor — little  Mis.  Otis  rote  t« 
ber  feet  pale  and  trembling. 

"  Who  are  you,  sir  ?  "  she  cried,  in  a  sort  of  whisper.  "  Vfho 
are  you  ?  " 

"My  name  is  Redmond  O'Donnell." 

She  uttered  a  low,  terrified  exclamation — then  in  frightened 
jn?,ence  sank  back  into  her  chair.  Yes,  she  recognized  the  name 
— had  heard  all  about  him,  and  now  sat  pale  and  trembling 
w.th  nervous  dread,  looking  at  him  with  wild,  scared  eyes. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  frighten  and  agitate  you  in  this  way,  my 
dctii  Mrs.  Otis,"  he  said,  speaking  very  gently,  *'  and — if  Miss 
Hern  castle  will  listen  to  reason — there  is  really  nothing  to  be 
frightened  about.  But  one  thing  or  other  she  must  do — leave 
ikarswocxi  or  tell  the  truth." 

"  The  tmth  ?  " 

"  rhat  she  is  Katherine  I>angerfield — not  lying  in  Castle- 
ford  churchyard,  but  alive  and  in  the  flesh.  You  see  I  know  al 
—all" 

She  sat  looking  at  him,  pale,  helpless,  speechless  with  i^int 
and  amaze. 

''  I  know  all,"  O'Donnell  repealed.  "That  what  all  took  for 
death  was  merely  a  trance,  and  that  your  son  alone  knew  it. 
Know,  j^  it  he  allowed  htr  to  be  buried,  and  that  same  night 
secretly  had  the  coffin  opened,  and  its  living  inmate  removed. 
He  restored  her  to  life  and  consciousness.  You  kept  her  hid 
in  your  house.  She  passed  tor  Miss  Otis,  and  was  never  seen 
by  any  one  but  yourself  and  your  son.  At  night,  when  all  was 
asleep,  she  took  her  airing  in  your  garden,  and  after  remaining 
a  fortnjight,  until  perfectly  restored,  she  ran  away.  She  went 
to  America — she  became  an  actress,  made  money,  and  re- 
named to  England.  She  had  sworn  vengeance  upon  Sir  Peter 
Dangerfield,  and  all  these  years  had  never  faltered  in  her  pur- 
pose. She  made  her  way  into  his  fa.nily  as  governess,  and  has 
nearly  driven  him  out  of  the  few  sensos  he  possesses,  by  playing 
ghost.  It  is  a  daring  game  she  is  carrving  on.  She  is  a  bold 
woman,  indeed.  That  Katherine  Dangerfield  and  Helen  Hern- 
castle  are  one  and  the  same,  no  one  hut  myself  knows  or  sus- 
pects. There  is  the  grave  where  they  saw  her  buried,  the 
tumbstone  with  its  false  mscription,  to  tlagger  thciu.  1  alone 
know — '.  wiow,  Mw.  Otis.    Sbnll  I  tell  yuu  how  ?    I  have  dont 


' '  (. 


450 


ATTMM    THE   MASqUERA£»F. 


y\-%\ 


,  M  I 


what  your  son  did — I  opened  the  grave — 1  opened  the  coffin. 
ind  found — ^it  empty.  No  mouldering  remains — no  shroud- 
no  ghastly  skull  and  bones,  and  dust  and  ashes,  but  a  cteac 
and  empty  coffin.  How  I  have  discovered  the  rest  doci  no! 
aiaUer.  I  knov  the  whole  truth.  I  am  prepared  to  prove  it 
Whatever  motive  keeps  Miss  Ilerncastle  at  Scarswood,  beyoml 
that  of  terrifying  its  superstitious  little  master,  1  don't  know 
^t  it  is  a  sinister  motive,  a  revengeful  motive — of  that  I  atn 
sure.  And  as  they  are  my  friends  I  cannot  stand  by  and  see  it 
Let  Miss  ilerncastle  go  to  Sir  Petsr — to  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna 
— to  Lord  Ruysland  or  his  daughter,  and  tt^ll  them  her  story, 
and  then  stay  her  lifetime,  if  she  chooses,  and  they  permit.  J I 
«he  Wih  not,  then  I  will  tell  all,  and  give  Sir  Peter  a  chance  to 
defend  himself  from  a  foe  so  ready  to  stab  in  the  dark.  I  might 
have  said  odl  this  to  herself,  but  she  has  looked  upon  me  as  her 
»,'neiijy  from  tne  first,  and  would  set  all  warning  of  mine  at  de- 
Hance.  Yo^^l  son  is  her  friend — let  him  speak  and  she  may 
heed,  \  have  uo  wish  to  be  hard  upon  her — 1  pity  her — 1  even 
admire  her — she  has  suffered  greatly;  but  nothing  save  evil 
can  come  of  the  course  she  is  pursuing  now.  She  must  speak 
before  this  week  tnds,  or  leave  Scarswood — that  is  my  ulii 
matum." 

He  arose.  "  I  set  that  I  have  distressed  you,  Mrs.  Otis- 
alarmed  you — and  1  regret  ha\ang  done  so.  There  is  no  occa 
)iion  for  alarm,  however.  Miss  Herncastle  has  only  to  drop  hei 
masquerade  and  come  forwiird  in  her  true  character,  and  1  am 
ready  and  willing  to  becom.!  her  friend  instead  of  her  enemy. 
But  1  will  not  stand  by  and  s»ie  this  deception  go  on.  I  wish 
you  good-afternoon." 

He  turned  to  go,  but  Mrs.  l>tis,  in  the  same  frightened  sort 
of  way,  made  a  motion  for  him  to  remain, 

"  You — you  take  a  good  deal  fcv*-  granted,"  she  said,  in  a  gasp- 
ing sort  of  voice.  "  1  never  admitted  that  I  knew  Miss  Hern 
r.istle — tiiat  she  is  Ratherine  Dangerfield ;  and  1  tliink  it  %'aj 
Clicked  of  you,  and  sacrilegious,  to  dare  to  open  her  grave  She 
was  hunted  down  in  her  life,  poor  girl,  v.nd  it  appears  she  cannot 
be  left  in  p'jace  even  in  her  grave.  I  have  heard  of  you  before, 
Captain  O'Uonneli — of  your  watching,  and  following,  and  mlei" 
fcring  where  you  have  no  business."  .She  stci^'ped  as  a.  smile 
broke  over  his  face. 

'*  From  whom,  madame?  since  you  do  lot  ^r^n  to  knowifis 
Miss  Hcnicastle.  You  are  right,  too — 1  kci^'t  watched  aoo 
(bUof/ed.     Fate  seems  to  h^ver  tak^n  a  malicioiLs  pleasuxe  h) 


V\: 


he 

shroud— 
t  a  c>eai 
doci  not 
prove  it. 
\,  beyond 
in't  know 
that  I  am 
md  see  it 
Tregeiina 
her  story, 
errnit.     \i 
chance  to 
.    I  might 
nje  as  her 
line  at  de- 
id  she  may 
er — 1  even 
T  save  evil 
must  speak 
is  my  ulti 

/Irs.  Otis- 
is  no  occa 

0  drop  hei 
, and  1  am 
her  enemy. 

n.     1  wish 

Ihtened  sort 

k  in  a  gasp- 
IMiss  Hem 
think  it  %'aj 
rrave     She 
5he  cannot. 

1  you  \>rforc, 
L  and  mtei^ 
\\  as  iv  smile 

I  to  knowina 
latched  aao 
pleasuie  to 


AFTER    THE   MASQVEHADE. 


4$  I 


pitting  rac  against  hftr,  And  as  I  find  the  r6le  of  iunatrur  dc 
Ifc.tive  disagreeable  eno,  gh  in  itself,  I  tnist  Miss  Tlemcastle 
\vill  not  conii'cl  vac  to  add  tliat  of  infonner  to  it.  Hut  if  aht 
i)ersisti,  yo\i  may  tell  her  from  me,  that  1  never  shirk  any  duty, 
iiowever  pe.tsonail ,  unpleasant.  Once  more — good-day,  niadacu 
— ht/e  is  my  card — my  I^ondon  address  is  on  the  back  ,  I  shal^ 
vemain  in  town  three  or  four  days  If  Mr.  Otis  returns  durin| 
i«at  time,  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  him," 

And  then  the  chasseur  bowed  himself  out,  and  ricver  had  tht 
licw  duly  which  so  strangely  devolved  upon  him  of  all  mankind 
l>ccn  half  so  distasteful  as  when  he  took  his  last  look  at  pooi 
iiile  trembling  Mrs.  Otis'  distressed  face. 

"  Confound  the  whole  affair  !  "  he  thought,  «avagely  ;  "  I  wish 
to  Heaven  I  had  never  seer,  Scarswood,  nor  any  one  in  it. 
What  is  Sir  Peter  Dangertield  to  me  ?  or  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna 
t;fther,  for  that  matter,  that  I  should  fight  their  battles?  Now 
J)at  1  have  got  into  the  thick  of  the  fray  it  is  impossible  to  get 
»)iit  without  dishonor  somewhere  ;  I  can't  shut  my  eyes  and 
st-e  the  one  driven  stark  mad  with  his  superstitious  ghost-seeing, 
and  the  life-long  misery  of  the  other  insured.  1  wish  1  might 
see  this  Henry  Otis.  Why  can't  Miss  Herncastlo  marry  him 
and  settle  down  into  a  sensible  commonplace  matron  ?  " 

He  waited  impatiently  during  the  four  ensuing  days,  but  he 
A-aited  in  vain.  If  Mr.  Henry  Oiis  had  returned  to  town,  he 
did  not  call  upon  Captain  O'Donnell ;  and  disgusted  and  des- 
perate, on  the  evening  of  the  fifth  he  returned  once  more  to 
Castleford. 

He  presented  himself  at  Scarswood  at  once.  He  had  r:ct 
seen  his  sister  for  a  week.  It  was  close  upon  eight  o'clock, 
;ind  the  silver  gray  of  the  summer  evening  was  deepening  into 
twilight,  as  he  walked  up  the  avenue.  The  flu  iter  of  a  white 
dress  caught  his  eye  amid  the  dark-green  depths  of  fern ;  a  taT, 
iilcnder  shape,  with  bright,  hazel  hair,  was  slowVy  pacing  the  ter- 
race alone.  It  was  Lady  Cecil.  A  soft  mass  of  rose-pinV 
cashmere,  silk,  and  down,  wrapped  her.  She  held  a  letter  i-.i 
her  hand  which  she  read  as  she  walked.  And  even  in  thai 
"dim  religious  light"  O'Donnell  saw,  or  fancied,  that  the  fail 
pale  face  had  grown  paler  and  graver  than  ever  he  had  seen  it, 
in  those  five  past  days. 

"  Lady  Cecil." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  stood  before  her.  She  had  LOt  heard 
aim  until  he  spoke.  A  faint,  trcmu.\ous  fiu.sh  rose  iij)  over  th« 
vrn'itiTe  ficf  ^%  «ht!  tvirvfd  i>!^(l  v^.if  bim  be*  Land. 


'■'1 


45* 


AtTER    THK  MASQUEMADM. 


<« 


Vi:% 


m  ' 


!''■ 


CapUin  O'Donnell  1  and  just  as  we  all  began  to  give  y«« 
up  for  lost  I  am  glad  you  have  come — I  have  been  wiaUBg 
for  you  unspeakably.     Do  you  know  that  Rose  is  ill  ?  " 

"  Lanty  said  K)mething  of  it,  but  I  thought — " 

*  She  is  really  ill — something  has  happened — I  don't  know 
what,  only  that  Miss  Hemcastle  is  at  the  bottom  ot  that  too 
Your  sister  has  worked  herself  irto  a  fever — she  has  neitb« 
eaten  nor  slept,  I  believe,  since  you  went  away.  Something  ia 
preying  on  her  mind — something  which  Miss  Hemcastle  alone 
knows.  Oh,  that  dreadful  Miss  Hemcastle!  Whv  did  she 
ever  enter  this  house  I  Captain  O'Donnell,  we  are  in  trouble 
— terrible  trouble — and  shi  is  the  cause  of  it  alL  Do  you  know 
that  she  is  gone?" 

"Gone!" 

"  Been  dismissed — discharged — sent  away  in  disgrace.  It  ii 
the  strangest  thing — the  most  wickedly  malicious ;  and  whatever 
her  object  could  have  been  puzzles  us  all." 

"  Lady  Cecil,  you  puzzle  me.  What  new  enormity  has  Miis 
Hemcastle  been  guilty  of?  " 

"  You  do  well  to  call  it  enormity.  She  has  parted  Sir  Petei 
Dangerfield  and  his  wife — for  life,  I  greatly  fear." 

He  had  been  walking  by  her  side— he  stopped  and  looked  at 
her  now.  He  had  delayed  too  long — he  had  shown  her  his 
cards  and  let  her  win  the  game.  He  had  thought  to  spare  her, 
and  the  mischief  was  done. 

"  Parted  Sir  Peter  &nd  his  wife  I  Do  I  hear  you  aiight,  my 
dear  Lady  CecU  ?  " 

"It  sounds  incredible, does  it  not ?  Nevertheless, it  is  tme. 
You  remember  the  masquerade  at  Mrs.  Everleigh's  last  Thurs 
day — that  most  miserable  masquerade  ?  Ginevra  would  insist 
upon  going  with  Major  Frankland  as  the  F&)];e  Kaled — he  as 
the  Knight  Lara.  Sir  Peter  hates  Mrs.  Eveileigh — he  abbors 
masquerades  and  male  costumes  for  women.  Of  course,  he 
was  right  and  Ginevra  was  wrong,  but  his  very  opposition  made 
her  more  resolute  to  go.  He  told  her  if  she  went  she  sh<»uli 
never  return,  that  she  should  not  live  under  his  roof  and  dii* 
grare  it.  Ginevra  defied  him  ;  but  in  her  heart,  she  owns  now, 
■he  was  afraid,  and  ready  to  draw  back.  But  that  fatal  Miss 
Hemcastle  would  not  let  hrir.  She  had  suggested  the  costumes, 
made  Ginevra' s,  and  used  ev^ery  persuasion  to  induce  her  to  defy 
Sir  Peter — deceive  him  rather,  and  go.  Ginevra  yielded.  She 
wrote  a  note  at  the  dictation  of  the  governess,  to  Major  Frank- 
^ndt  in  Lottdon,  telling  him  of  Sir  letera  opposition,  asking 


.  t 


AFTER    tm  SfASQUFRADR, 


451 


>  give  JTM 

«niriahiBf 

ion't  kDOW 
f  that  too 
las  neitlMi 
omethingia 
castle  alone 
hr  did  she 
in  trouble 
o  you  know 


;race.    It  ii 
ad  whatever 

ity  has  MLis 

ed  Sir  Pctei 

nd  looked  at 
»wn  her  his 
o  spare  her, 

L  alight,  my 

ss,  it  is  true, 
last  Thurs 
would  insist 
aled — he  as 
—he  abhors 
f  course,  he 
osition  ntade 
:  she  sh<»uUI 
oof  and  dii* 


ic  owns  now, 
fatal  Miss 
he  costumes, 
:e  her  to  defy 
yielded.  Sh« 
lajor  Frank" 
iitioii.  asking 


.v.n\  to  come  secretly  down,  remain  at  one  of  ihe  inns,  and  go 
uoin  thence  to  the  ball.  My  poor  cousin  cannot  even  keep 
her  own  secrets,  and  she  told  me  I  said  everytliing  J  cowld 
think  of  to  shake  her  resobition,  but  in  vain.  Finally  I  told 
pipa  in  despair,  and  made  him  waylay  the  train  at  the  statiotu 
You  remember — he  \\\Q,iyou  that  same  afternoon.  He  talked  to 
Major  Frankland,  and  the  major  finally  agreed  to  give  up  th^i 
biill  Ginevra,  of  course,  would  not  dream  of  going  without 
him  But  he  insisted  upon  seeing  he«-,  and  telling  her  with  bio 
own  lips.  Unfortunately  we  were  all  at  Morecambe  at  an  archery 
jiarry,  and  when  he  reached  Scarswood  he  found  only  Miss 
Herncastle.  He  wrote  a  note  explainmg  all ;  told  her  to  have 
his  masquerade  dress  returned,  and  left  her.  That  note  Mi^is 
Herncastle  destroyed — she  owns  it ;  and.  Captain  O'Donnell 
— it  seems  almost  incredible — she  went  to  the  masquerade  in. 
stead  of  Major  Frankland  and  in  his  aress  !  The  major  is 
short,  the  governess  is  tall — she  managed  to  make  the  Lara  cos- 
tume fit  her.  No  one  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  before.  You 
s^ill  scarcely  be  able  to  believe  it." 

"  i  can  believe  a  great  deal  of  Miss  Herncastle.  She  is  a 
wonderful  woman  I " 

'"■  A  wonderful  woman,  indeed — it  is  to  be  hoped  there  are 
few  like  her,*'  Lady  Cecil  responded  indignantly ;  "  and  yet, 
though  something  seemed  to  warn  i.ie  against  her — she  had  a 
sort  of  fascination  for  me  from  the  first.  VVell,  Captain  O'Don- 
nell, it  happened  in  this  way :  We  returned  from  the  archeiy  {hXz ; 
(linevra  pretended  headache  and  retired  to  her  room.  All  the 
while  Sir  Peter  was  on  the  watch.  Miss  Herncastle  dressed 
her — a  flyman  from  Castleford  was  in  waiting,  and  he  took  hei 
to  Mrs.  Everleigh.  The  governess  had  managed  to  secrete  the 
l^ara  dress  in  her  room,  and  the  moment  Lady  Dangerfield  was 
gone,  she  rapidly  dressed  herself,  and  walked — actually  walked 
&om  Scarswood  to  Mrs.  Everleigh's  house.  Sir  Peter,  in  spita 
of  their  precautions,  had  seen  his  wife  depart,  and  followed  im- 
Dtiediately.  At  Mrs.  Everleigh' s  he  procured  a  black  domino, 
and  in  that  disguise,  and  masked,  of  course,  he  watched  the 
page.  The  knight  arrived  in  due  time — rather  iate,  perhaps, 
and  neither  Ginevra,  dancing  or  talking  to  him,  or  Sir  Pete? 
watching,  deemed  it  was  other  than  the  major.'' 

"Well,"  O'Donnel)  s?Jd,  curtly. 

"  Supper  came,  and  under  plea  of  going  for  an  ice,  Couzii 
Lara  disappeared.  Ginevra  had  to  go  down  on  tlie  arm  of  aa 
©ther  gentleman.     Ax  smtper  there  was  the  usual  universal  uis 


I  4 


11 


^ 


' .. 


'Ill 


t 

i 
<i 
J 

I'i  i 
IP.  ' 


SI 


'i     t,' 


r  r' 


454 


AFTER    THE  J^ASQrEMAiXB. 


fTi«£lring,  and  the  first  face  poor  Ghievra  saw  was  that  of  S^ 
Peter.  Imagine  her  feelings  !  And  the  major  nowhere  to  be 
•©en.  A  moment  after,  Sir  Peter  disappeared,  and  my  unfort- 
unate cousin,  half  dead  with  fear,  made  her  way  from  the  sup* 
per  room  and  the  house,  and  reached  home  in  the  fly,  the  moit 
pitiable  object  you  ever  saw.  Her  first  question  was  for  hef 
nusband — her  first  impulse  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet  and  un- 
ploie  bis  forgiveness.  But  he  was  not  here — he  has  not  beoi 
^ere  since." 

"  Not  here  since  ?  " 

•*  No,  Captain  O'Donnell.  If  he  had  come  home  and  raged 
and  stormed  there  might  have  been  some  hope — now  I  fear 
there  is  none.  He  is  in  Castleford,  and  his  London  solicitor 
is  with  him,  stopping  at  the  Scarswood  Arms.  He  refuses  to 
see  his  wife-— he  will  never  see  her  again,  he  says,  as  long  as 
he  lives.  Papa  has  been  with  him — I  have  been  with  him — 
all  in  vain.  He  is  harder  than  stone — harder  than  iron.  She 
has  made  his  life  miserable  long  enough — that  is  his  aniftwer. 
If  she  were  dying  he  would  not  see  her  now.  He  told  her  if 
she  went  to  that  woman's  house — in  male  attire,  to  meet  Jaa- 
per  Frankland,  she  should  never  live  beneath  roof  of  his.  And 
she  never  will." 

"  But  it  was  not—" 

"It  was  not  Major  Frankland.  Yes — yes,  he  knows  that ; 
it  makes  no  difference ;  nothing  makes  any  difference.  I  be- 
lieve he  hates  her  and  only  wants  a  pretext  for  separation. 
This  Iwrrible  masquerade  and  more  horrible  governess  have 
given  him  tliat.  He  knows  Jasper  Fiankland  was  in  London, 
and  that  Miss  Herncastle  played  the  double  part  of  Major 
and  Lara  on  that  fatal  night.  His  answer  is  that  fhai  ban 
nothing  to  do  with  it — his  wife  went  in  the  full  belief  that  it 
•*'/r>5  Frankland,  in  male  attire,  and  to  the  house  of  a  woman 
A  doubtful  character.  If  there  were  grounds  for  rtivorce, 
a  divorce  he  would  have ;  as  there  are  not,  he  will  still  have 
a  separation.  Lady  Dangerfield  may  ronain  here  until  the 
u-icessary  documents  are  drawn  up — then  she  leaves,  and 
forever.  She  is  nearly  insane,  and  no  wonder ;  think  of  the 
exposure,  the  scandal,  the  disgrace.  And  to  know — to  know 
it  is  all  that  wicked,  revengeful  woman's  work." 

He  had  never  seen  her  so  moved,  so  excited,  so  agitated  in 
her  life  Was  this  the  cause  of  the  change  he  saw  in  her  altered 
fee*?? 


at  ofSii 

:re  to  be 

ly  unfoft- 

the  sup* 

the  most 

^  for  her 

t  andim* 

not 


and  raged 
low  I  fear 
n  solicitor 
refuses  to 
as  long  a« 
^ith  bim — 
iron.  She 
lis  answer, 
told  ner  il 
)  meet  Ja*- 
r  his.    And 


nows  that ; 
ice.  I  be- 
separation. 
rness  have 
n  London, 
t  of  Major 

thai  ba« 

lief  that  it 

"  a  woman 

jr   (livorce, 

still  have 
;  until  the 
eaves,  and 
link  of  the 
^ — to  know 

agitated  in 
her  altered 


AWTBR   raE'  MASQUERADE 


415 


^'And  Knw  waa  it  ail  discovered?  Did  Mi&a  Heracastlc 
tonfess  at  once  ?  ' 

**  Miss  Hemcastle  has  not  confessed  at  all.  In  some  way 
Khe  reached  Scarswood  before  Ginevra — she  inuL;t  have  had  * 
conveyance  waiting,  and  was  one  of  tlie  first  to  receive  her  \r. 
lier  ordina.ry  dress.  The  tumult  poor  Ginevra  made  arc»isc<; 
the  house.  In  the  cold  gray  of  the  morning  we  all— r-pap* 
r.mong  the  vest — gathered  about  her.  She  told  her  story  in  o^u 
incoherent  way.  Papa  listened  in  amazement.  *  PVankland," 
he  said.  *  Frankland  at  rhe  ball ! — impossible  !  I  myrjelf  saw 
bun  depart  for  London  by  the  Parliamentary  train  at  6.20  lasi 
evening.  Frankland  is  in  London.'  He  was  positive,  Ginevra 
was  positive.  The  end  of  the  matter  was  he  telegraphed  to 
Major  Frankland  in  London — was  he  there  or  had  ho  been  at 
tile  ball !  The  answer  came  ut  once — he  luid  not  been  at  the 
ball,  v/as  then  in  Ixindon,  and  would  run  down  at  once,  lie 
did  so,  and  then  tlie  murder  was  out.  '  Had  she  not  got  his 
note?'  'What  note?'  'The  explanatory  note  given  to  Mi:.s 
Herncastle.'  *  Certainly  not.'  Miss  Hi n.castle  was  sunmi(me',1 
and  confronted  with  die  indignant  major.  '  What  had  she  done; 
with  his  note?'  And  Miss  Herncastle  looked  him  full  in  the 
face,  and  told  him  she  had  destroyed  it" 

'*  Did  she  say  why  ?  " 

"She  said  (and  you  should  have  heard  how  coolly)  that  she 
thought  it  a  pity  Lady  Dangerfield  should  be  deprived  of  the 
ball,  and  of  wearing  the  dress  upon  v/hich  she   had  set  her 
heart,  for  a  jealous  whim  of  Sir  Peter's  and  a  prudish  whim 
of  the  major's.     She  destroyed   the   note,  and  allowed  I.ady 
Dangerfield  to  go  and  enjoy  herself.     Who  then  had  jjerson 
ated  the  major — herself?    But  on  this  subject  Miss  Herncastle 
was  mute — as  obstinate  as  Sir  Feter  himself.     The  Lara  dres* 
was  found  packed  in  its  box  in  the  major's  room,  and  the  gov 
^mess  refused  (o  confess  or  deny  anything.     They  might  sui 
fject  what  they  cho^/C — accuse  her  of  anything  they  liked.     If 
ithey  could  not  prove  their  charges  they  had  better  be  silent  - 
ifoe  would  admit  nothing.     And  she  would  not.     Ginevra  flew 
into  a  terrible  passion  and  ordered  her  out  of  the  house,  and 
she  wen' — without  a  word." 

ODonnell  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  By  George  1 "  he  said,  "  here  is  a  mare's  nest.  And  wbeio 
has  she  gone.  Lady  Cecil  ?  " 

"To  London — three  days  ago.  Before  ihe  left,  she  had  aii 
inteiview  with  your  sister,  sit^ce  wi>en  Rose  has  been  unal-'a 


456 


AFTEJt    THE  MASQUERADE. 


H\ 


m\i\ 


iifi  I 


to  'eave  her  room.  And  Ginevra  is  in  hysterics  ia  Ajri.  I 
never  saw  papa  so  woiried— so  annoyed  in  all  my  X^  befnre. 
He  says  Miss  Herncastle  is  Satan  himself  in  crinoitee,  and 
that  all  her  mischie*"  is  not  done  yet." 

"I  agree  with  his  lordship.  And  her  champion— ncr  ad 
mirer  of  other  days,  the  chivalrous  Comishnian — wl'.ere  iff  h/; 
that  he  does  not  break  a  lance  in  favor  of  this  persecuted  lady  ?  * 

The  soft  snnuner  dusk  might  have  hidden  from  3iny  othcj 
^f'xv^  the  keen  blue  eyes  of  OT  onnell,  the  flush  that  rose  uy 
&i^  over  Lady  Cecil's  fair  face. 

"  ^^  is  hardly  a  fitting  ti'  ■»  or  ".  je*  t  for  Captain  O'Donncil'i 
sarcasm,"  she  ansv  ^icd  oul4!}'  ''^ju  Arthur  Tregenna  is  in 
CornwalK  He  left  ven  earJy  wh  the  morning  following  the 
nar.quera(V/ — before  the  newi;  'uid  sjv  ;ad." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  l.ady  Cec^l-  O'.lieve  me  I  sympathise 
»vilh  you  at  least.  Will  you  pardon  me  again,  if  I  say  I  feel 
but  very  little  for  Lady  Dangerfield.  Her  own  disobedience 
has  wrought  her  ruin — she  has  no  one  to  blamv  but  herself." 

"  That  does  not  make  it  any  easier  to  bear  But  I  know  of 
old  how  little  sympathy  you  have  for  human  error.  She  may 
have  done  wrong,  but  shi  is  suffering  now,  and  suffering  goes 
far  to  atone  for  sin." 

She  had  ^own  white  again — \itj  face  looked  like  marble  in 
the  faint  misty  light.  She  was  Sooking  away  from  him  as  she 
apoke,  a  wistfulness,  a  passion  in  her  brov.Ti  eyes  he  could  not 
understand. 

"  I  dare  say  people  who  go  tnrough  life  a?  you  have  gone, 
neither  loving  nor  hating  very  greatly,  can  afford  to  be  cynical, 
and  bard,  and  cold.  You  have  never  suffered  yourself — nor 
erred,  I  suppose — how  are  you  to  understand  or  feel  for  your 
-i^  eaker  fellow-mortals  who  do  ?  But  at  least  I  hope  you  wkll 
be  able  to  descend  f  om  your  tower  of  strength  far  enough  to 
3>iiiv>athize  with  your  sister.  Be  gentle  with  her,  Captais 
O'Donnell — at  least  as  far  as  you  unckrstaiid  the  word,  for  shf 
n-  in  trouble.  Don't  be  too  hard — your  life  is  not  all  over — 
even  you  may  learn  what  it  is  to  suffer,  before  you  die  ! " 

She  turned  from  him,  and  was  gone — the  graceful  willowy 
5^ure,  the  flashing  hazel  eyes.  The  passion  in  her  voice — what 
did  it  mean  i  He  watched  her — an  inexplicable  look  on  his 
tace — a  hard  sort  of  smile  on  his  lips. 

•  Kven  you  may  learn  what  it  is  to  suffer  before  you  die  " 
Ik  repeated  her  words  inwardly,  as  he  took  \v\s  way  to  his  sift- 
fcc^s   jtuiw*        ''Ah.    La/ly   Cecil,  you    t.ai:ght    fnr  that   lesa<J9 


"J/Jf    YMAKS   iW  lATB.' 


^%1 


o^e,  and 

1— ncr  ad 

here  iff  Iw; 

ed  lady  ?  * 

iny  othcs 

at  rose  uy 

I'DoTt-iciri 

e«na  is  in 
lowing  the 

sympathize 
[  say  1  feel 
sobediencr 
herself." 
I  know  of 
She  may 
EFering  goes 

maztele  in 
him  a«  she 
;  could  not 

have  gone, 
be  cynical, 
urself— nor 
el  for  your 
pe  you  Will 

enough  to 
ir,  Captaifj 
ord,  for  sh* 

all  over — 
die  ! " 

;ful  willowy 
roice—- what 
look  on  hif 

;  you  die  " 
ly  to  his  &&»■ 
that   lessor 


thoroughly  six  years  ago.  ]  w<i^  a  fool  ihisji — a  look  now— «o<<ii 
I  fear  the  folly  will  go  with  inc  to  my  giave."  iic  la^'pcd  &I 
his  sister's  door.  "  It  is  I,  Rose,"  his  familia^t  voi:  e  said. 
"  May  I  come  in  ?  " 

He  heard  a  stifled  cr^  from  within — a  cry  of  terror  it  soundtxiv 
a'sd  h'.G  heart  sin<>te  him.  Poor  little  Rose  •  Had  it  come  lo 
JiiiS— l»ad  h^*  been  hard  and  unfe  ing  with  her,  and  taught  \\k.i 
V4,  fear  'nstead  of  love  him?  Uith  the  remorseful  thought  stU'i 
I':  his  mmd,  the  door  openid  and  she  stood  before  him. 


CHAPTER  XXUI. 

•*8IX     TEARS     TOO     LATE," 

OCR  little  Rose,  indeed  .     In  the  dusk  she    arne  ghd 
ing  forward,  so  unlike  herself — so  like  a     wi^c — so 
wan,  so  wasted — that  with  a  shocked  exclaruation,  he 
drew  hv*r  to  him,  and  looked  down  into  her  worn  face. 
'They  told  me  you  were  ill,  Rose,  but  not  like  this.     If  I 
riad  choiight ! — if  1  had  known — " 

She  flung  her  anns  round  his  neck,  and  hid  her  face  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  Don't;,  Redmond.  Don't  look — don't  speak  to  aie  like  that. 
i  don't  deserve  it — 1  don't  deserve  any  love  or  kindness  frimi 
you.  I  have  deceived  you  shamefully.  You  will  despise  me 
—you  will  hate  me  when  I  have  told  you  all." 

"  Will  I  ?  I  am  not  sure  of  that.  When  you  have  told  me 
all,  I  think  I  shall  still  be  sorry  to  see  those  hollow  chiicks  and 
^iiiktn  eyes,  and  wasted  hands.     Shall  I  light  the  lamps,  Rose, 

*'  No,  no !  no  lights ;  such  a  wretch  as  I  am  should  tell  her 
tJ^ry  in  the  dark.  Here,  sit  down  in  this  chair,  Redmond,  and 
kt  me  take  this  stool  at  your  feet  At  your  feet,  my  tilting 
place." 

**  My  dear  Rose,  a  most  ominous  beginning.  \\Tiat  nmst  the 
story  be  like  when  the  preface  is  so  terrible?  Have  you  no« 
grown  nervous  and  hysterical,  and  inciiiKii  u>  magnify  mole- 
hiiis  mto  mountftinft?     Out  with  it,  Ruse  ;  i  pronuse  ti\».  »;>  li« 


4$8 


-^/Jr    YKAJtS    roc    LATE,"" 


\n- 


ft!    % 


r/:  ,1. 


8K!, 


ih: 


tco  Stern  a  father  confesso.r.     If  i  the  story,  I  suppose,  tbMrt 
this  fellow  Dantiee  ?  " 

She  had  seated  herself  at  his  feet,  her  arms  across  his  knee, 
hr.r  face  lying  upon  it.  He  laid  his  hand  very  gently  on  hei 
]x)wed,  humbled  head  | 

•*  Speak,  Rose.     I  am  sony  to  see  you  hive  learned  to  fe« 
met  like  this.     If  I  was  stem  with  you  the  other  night  I  ask  yoit ' 
to  forgive  me  now.     If  you  and  1  may  not  trust  each  other, 
trhom  may  we  trust  ?     I  pro  nise  to  be  merciful     Is  it  abou! 
Uiis  fellow  Dantree  ?  " 

"It  is.  Redmond,  I  ought  to  have  told  you  that  other  night, 
bnt  I  am  a  coward — awc^k,  pitiful  coward.  They  say  a  guilty 
conscience  makes  cowards  of  us  all,  and  mine  is  a  guilty  con- 
science indeed.  For  seven  years  I  have  kept  the  secret  I  tell 
you  to-night.  Redmond,"  a  great  gasp,  "  you  asked  me  if 
Gaston  Dantree  was  my  lover,  and  I  said  yes.  I  should  have 
told  you  the  truth  ;  he  was  more  than  my  lover.  He  was  my — 
hiisband." 

The  last  word  seemed  to  suffocate  her.  She  crouched  far- 
tiicr  down  as  though  shrinking  almost  from  a  blow.  She  had 
exi)ected  a  great  start — an  exclamation  of  araaze  and  horrcr — 
cither  as  hard  to  bear  as  a  blow.  Neither  came.  Dead  silence 
fell.  He  sat  perfectly  still — a  dark  statue  in  the  dark.  What- 
ever look  his  face  wore,  she  could  not  see.  That  pause  lasted 
fxjr  perhaps  ten  seconds — ten  hours  it  seemed  to  her.  Then, 
"  Your  husband  !  This  is  a  suq)risc.  Aiid  for  seven  years  you 
have  been  this  scoundrel's  '»vife?" 

*•  For  seven  long,  miserable  years.  Oh,  brother,  forgive  me. 
]  have  done  shamofuUy  wrong — I  have  been  a  living  lie — I 
have  deceived  the  kindest  grandfather — the  deaj.est  brother, 
but  if  yon  knew  what  I  have  suftered — " 

That  choking  in  her  voice  made  her  pause  again.  **  And 
&[]frt;ring  goes  far  to  atone  for  sin/'  He  remembered  I.ady 
r'er.il's  soft,  ead  words  of  reproach,  and  agaiti  his  caressing 
touch  fell  upon  the  bonded  young  head.  It  had  been  a  blow  to 
him,  a  blow  to  his  love  and  his  pride,  and  both  vrere  great,  but 
his  voice  and  touch  were  far  more  tender  thaia  she  had  ever 
known  them  for  years. 

'*  I  can  believe  it,"  he  said ;  *'  you  have  gleaned  for  youi 
folly  indeed  Don't  fear,  Rose.  I  can  only  ii>gret  that  yoo 
did  not  tell  me  long  ago.     Tell  iwe  now  at  lea;^? — ail." 

She  told  him — m  broken  sentences — with  bowed  head,  whilo 
tTKC  isirknesij  oC  the;  Asiguit  eight  dccy^^ned  In  ihs  little  rooiii, 


'^  S/JC    YhUAS    iOO  J^J£/ 


4S1I 


tOSCt  tbcirti 

}  his  knee, 

uly  on  hei 

led  to  fsa  I 
it  I  ask  yo«  * 
;ach  other. 
Is  it  about 

other  ni^ht, 
say  a  guilty 
guilty  con- 
lecret  I  tell 
sked  me  if 
should  have 
e  was  my — 

ouched  far- 
f.  She  had 
nd  horrcf — 
3ead  silence 
irk.  What- 
pause  lasted 
ler.  Then, 
;n  years  you 

forgive  me. 
iving  lie — I 
est  brother, 


ain. 


"And 
hered  I.ady 
is  caressing 
3n  a  blow  to 
e  great,  but 
le  had  ever 

ed  for  youi 
ret  that  yon 

ill." 

I  head,  while 
little  roopfi, 


fhc  old  story  of  a  ^I's  love  and  folly — of  "  inarryng  In  hitttt 
ftnd  rejKinting  at  leisure." 

"  I  wasn't  quite  eighteen,  and  just  home  from  ray  convent 
school  when  T  met  hun  first,  with  all  a  girl's  fooUsn  dieains  oi 
beauty,  and  love,  and  romance.  He  was  very  handsome — I 
fiAve  never  seen  such  a  face  as  his — with  the  dash,  and  case, 
ind  grace  of  a  man  of  the  world.  And  if  he  had  been  a  very 
;;ilcari  of  ugliness,  his  divine  voice  might  have  won  njy  dream- 
ing, sentimental  girl's  heart.  The  aroma  of  comiuest  hung 
*l>out  him — married  ladies  petted  and  spoiled  him — young 
ladies  raved  of  his  /tgaux  y^ux anidhis  Mario  voice,  and  I — I  fell 
in  love  with  him  in  a  reckless,  desperate  sort  of  way,  as  later  I 
suppose  poor  Katherine  Dangerfiield  did  in  this  very  house.  [ 
was  M.  De  Lansac's  reputed  heiress  then,  and  just  the  sort  oi 
prize  he  was  looking  out  for.  Very  young,  very  silly,  not  bad-look- 
mg,  and  the  heiress  of  one  or  two  million  dollars — a  prize  even 
worthy  his  stooping  to  win.  And-  -and  Redmond,  in  these  first 
days  I  thiuK  he  even  liked  me  a  little  too.  My  grandfather 
detested  him — forbade  him  the  house  -forbade  me  to  see  or 
sj>eak  to  him.  Then  began  my  wrong  doing — I  did  see  him — 
I  t/td  speak  to  him — I  loved  him — you  wouldn't  understand 
if  I  told  you  how  dearly,  and — and — Redmond — 1  consented 
to  a  private  marriage.  He  was  afraid  to  lose  M.  De  Lansac's 
heiress,  and  I  was  afraid  to  lose  /lim.  He  threatened  to  leave 
New  Orleans  and  never  return  if  I  refused.  1  married  him  and 
for  a  little  time  was  happy  in  a  fool's  Paradise.  Only  for  a  very 
little  while  indeed.  My  grandfather,  in  the  most  unexpected 
and  sudden  manner,  as  you  know,  got  married.  Gaston  was 
furious — no  need  to  tell  you  how  he  stormed  and  raved,  or  the 
names  he  called  M.  De  Lansac  I  received  my  first  lesson  in 
his  real  character  then.  That  year  he  remained  in  New  Orleani 
— then  little  Louis  was  born,  and  all  his  hopes  were  at  an  end. 
He  might  bid  good-by  to  M.  De  Lansac's  great  fortune.  He 
came  to  me  one  night — we  met  in  secret  in  the  grounds — like 
a  man  beside  himself  with  rage  and  disappointment.  He 
accesed  me  of  being  the  cause  of  all ;  it  was  bad  enough  to  be 
a  bfggar  himself  without  being  deluded  into  marrying  a  beggar. 
He  bade  me  savagely  keep  our  marriage  a  dead  secret  from 
the  world.  He  was  going  to  England,  he  said  ;  if  he  retrieved 
his  fortune  there  some  day  he  might  send  for  me  ;  if  he  did  not, 
why  1  was  still  safe  at  Menadarva.  That  was  our  parting.  I 
have  never  set  eyes  on  him  since. 

"  He  wcm  to  Kngland  i  he  wrote  me  &om  London  and  gave 


ill 

r 

I!;  I' 


1^  } 


400 


**SJJC    yUAMU    JVO  LATE, 


■MM 


!; 


n; 


';i 


liil-.'   ' 


':h 


\\  \ 


llilj 


i    :!; 


h  ■-\-\ 


iir*  .i  i.on(Jon  address-  -rioinr  paoiisherb  there.  I  answered,  bfllt 
Ci.r.civcd  no  second  letter.  I  tvajlJid  and  wrote  again— fttill  n« 
rfply.  Then  I  got  desperate,  the  little  [)ridc  1  had  left  me  roue 
•j;>.  I  'ATotc  for  thr  'ast  timr  If  lie  wished  to  be  free  he 
ras  free  as  the  wind  ;  i  would  iiold  him  or  no  man  against  hi« 
Mrill.  Only  ict  him  return  my  (jicture,  and  letters,  and  considei 
-ii-e  IS  dead  to  hin»  f(irevt.'i.  I  did  not  iltc.un  he  would  take- 
%.  c  It  tny  word,  but  he  difl ;  the  next  mail  brought  me  what  I 
iv^€j,  ny  letters,  njy  picture,  and  not  one  word  beside." 

She  pau:^ied,  her  breath  coming  in  qjiick  short  sobs.  Hei 
toii.c  was  fainter  than  ever  when  she  resumed. 

"  I  was  ill  after  that — ill  in  body  and  mind.  A  great  loathing 
cf  New  Orleans  and  all  in  it  took  possession  of  me — a  loathing 
of  life,  for  that  matter.  I  wanted  to  die  and  make  an  end 
of  all  the  miserable,  never-ceasing  pain  that  tortured  me.  As 
i  could  not  die,  I  wanted  to  leave  New  Orleans,  the  scene  oi 
iviy  troubles,  forever.  A  great  and  indescribable  longing  to  see 
Ireland  once  more — to  'i^it you — took  possession  of  me.  To 
add  the  fuiishing  blow,  I  saw  in  an  English  i>aper  the  announce- 
ment of  the  approaching  marriage  of  Miss  Katherine  Danger- 
held,  oiil)  daughter  of  Sir  John  Dangt?rlield,  of  Scarswood  Park, 
Sussex,  to  Mr.  Gaston  Dantrec,  of  New  Orleans,  with  a  few 
Rnnanlic  details.  1  think  I  felt  stunned,  worn  out.  In  a  dim 
surt  of  way  it  struck  me  \  ought  to  prevent  this  marriage.  I 
looked  in  the  paper  again,  determined,  if  possible,  to  save  Miss 
Katherine  Dangeriield,  and  dropped  it  in  despair.  The  wed- 
ding day  was  fixed  for  the  first  of  January  ;  it  was  the  twentieth 
tiien.  It  was  too  late.  How  was  1  to  tell,  that  in  New  York 
or  elsewhere,  he  might  not  have  still  a  third  wife,  whose  claim 
was  prior  to  mine  ?     f  turned  sick  and  cold  with  the  thought. 

"  Redmond,  1  wonder  1  did  not  die.  1  wanfea  to  die.  I  had 
such  a  horror  of  njyself— of  him  — a  horrortoo  of  ever  being  found 
t,>*jt.  But  there  was  little  danger  of  that ;  no  one  knew ;  my 
secret  was  safe  enough.  J  wrote  to  you,  but  you  had  gone  to 
i\  Iglors.  There  was  no  hope  but  to  :  emain,  and  drag  out  life 
ft!  Menadarva.  I  still  read  the  English  papers  for  further  news 
?>f  him,  and  at  last  I  read  the  cmel  story — the  horrible  tragedy 
exacted  in  this  house — the  story  of  Katherine  Dangerfield's 
v/edJing  day,  and  what  came  after.  She  was  happier  than  JL 
She  died,  and  1  could  only  live  on  and  oear  my  trouble  alone. 
I  wrote  to  you  again  and  2gzkxi.  \  desperate  longing  to  know 
vhelher  Gaston  were  alive  (iilcd  ine.  f  didn't  care  for  him— I 
i*bhorrca  ^ma  aow,  t#ui  i  wanted  to  ^lhow.     11  ti&  were  de-^d,  1 


-i/JC  HLA»a  rxju  i^it\' 


#1 


swered,  bttX 

in— still  na 

[eft  ine  roue 

be  free  he 

against  hit 

ud  considex 

would  take 

me  what  I 

side." 

Bobs.     Hei 

eat  loathing 
—a  loathing 
ike  an  end 
ed  me.  As 
le  scene  of 
iging  to  see 
i'  me.  To 
z  announce- 
ine  Daiiger- 
iwood  Park, 
with  a  few 
III  a  diiu 
larriage.     I 

0  save  Misa 
The  wed- 

e  twentieth 

1  New  York 
vhose  claim 
e  thought. 

>  die.  I  had 
being  found 
knew ;  my 
lad  gone  to 
liag  out  life 
urther  news 
ible  tragedy 
angerfield's 
pier  than  L 
)uble  alone 
ng  to  know 
for  him— I 
fexe  d&-s>df  i 


thought,  and  \  were  free,  I  would  entj.  a  (Vo^c^nt,  and  find 
peace  for  the  rest  of  my  days.  iiii'.  i  vr«LH  years  waiting 
before  you  came.  Vou  did  corn^.  at  last  —you  broughl 
!ne  here— here  where  he  disappearr.d,  and  where  1  hoped  t« 
discover  something  more.  But  this  man,  Otis,  in  whose  c&re 
he  was,  has  gone.  I  know  no  more  to-diy  than  the  «lay  mi 
CAxxm.  This  is  my  story,  Redmond.  Pity  n\e,  /or gin  me,  if 
you  can." 

He  had  listened  in  grave  silence — he  had  never  iriierniptcd 
her  once.     His  hand  rested  still  on  her  soft,  dark  hair. 

"I  pity  you,  I  forgive  you.  It  is  easy  to  do  b^^th.  And  this 
is  vl\y  you  came  toCastleford  ?  If  yuw  had  oi'ly  tol6  rae — but 
it  miv  not  be  too  late  yet.  Trust  me,  Rose  ;  I  shall  discover, 
and  speedily,  whether  Dan  tree  be  living  or  dead. 

She  clasped  her  hands  irapassionately. 

"  If  you  only  could.  Oh,  Redmond,  how  good  you  are-  -how 
good — how  good  1  If  you  only  knew  what  a  relief  it  is  to  have 
told  you  this — to  know  that  you  do  not  hate  me  for  what  I 
have  done.  I  dreaded  your  knowing  more  than  anything  else 
on  earth — dreaded  the  loss  of  your  love  and  tmst.  Kven  now, 
but  for  Miss  Herncastle,  I  might  still  be  dumb." 

"  Ah,  Miss  Herncastle.  And  ^^f*.  knows,  of  course  she  does 
Pi  ay  what  has  this  very  remark;*Dle  Miss  Herncastle  to  say 
jn  the  subject  ?  " 

"  She  knew  all,  that  I  arn  Gaston  Dan  tree's  wife — how  she 
knows  it,  she  won't  tell.  She  knows,  too,  whether  he  is  living 
or  dead,  but  she  keeps  her  knowledge  to  herself.  She  told  in^ 
she  had  little  reason  to  love  or  serve  my  brother's  sistei — what 
did  she  mean  by  it  ?  That  you  were  very  clever  in  cut  ajniA>i»" 
detective  line,  and  that  here  was  opening  for  youi  grnios  / 
couldn't  understand  her — [  implored  her  to  tell  me  'he  *«  idL 
hut  it  was  all  in  vain — she  b«ide  nie  go  to  you  and  tell  yon  jwt 
(rood  turn  deserved  another.  Redmond,  she  is  a  mystery;  » 
il range,  desperate,  dangerous  woman." 

"  A  mystery,"  her  brother  said.  "  Well,  perhaps  vo,  and  yet 
4  »ri)ttery  I  think  lean  understand.  A  dangtrrous  woman. 
Well  perhaps  so  again,  and  yet  a  woman  almost  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning.  I  pity  you^  Rxwe,  but  I  pity  Miss  Hern- 
castle more." 

His  sister  lookea  ap  at  hiir  m  wonder,  but  the  darkness  hid 
tU)0  face. 

"You  pity  her,"  she  repeatetl,  'because  ab«  \a&  be.tt 
Earned  out  of  Scarswood  ?  " 


I  ■ 


PI ' "  J  ^ 


463 


**SIX    y&AMS   TOO  LATM.** 


fiv'WS- 


i:r 


■  I'll 


'•  Hutlly.  Never  mind.  Rose ;  you  will  hear  it  all 
epaugli,  ami  when  you  do,  1  think  you  will  look  up3n  this  <k> 
RigTking  governess,  as  I  do,  'more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger.'  l^tA 
us  drop  Miss  Herncast:le  and  Gaston  Dantree,  too,  for  the  pres- 
ent, and  talk  of  youiself  You  must  understand,  of  course, 
that  in  the  present  state  of  domestic  affairs  at  Scarswood,  lh<? 
•ooner  all  guests  leave,  the  better.  Lord  Ruysland  and  hk 
Aiiightcr  are  Lady  Dangerfield's  relatives,  and  privileged  to 
slay.  For  you — you  nmst  leave  at  once.  Are  you  able  to 
travel  ?     You  look  wretchedly  ill." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  wearily,  "  I  think  so.  It  is  more  a 
mind  diseased  than  anything  else.  It  is  such  an  unutterable 
lehef  to  have  told  you,  and  obtained  your  forgiveness  and  help, 
t|iat  I  feel  stronger  already.  You  are  right,  we  must  go  at  once, 
l^oor  Lady  Dangerfieid.  Oh,  Redmond,  brother,  what  a 
wretched,  wrong-doing  world  it  is ! " 

"Wrong-doing,  indeed,"  and  the  chasseur's  mouth  grew 
Tterner ;  "  I  have  little  compassion  for  Lady  Dangerfieid  or 
«Tiy  of  her  c'ass.  Place  Miss  Herncastle,  the  outcast,  and 
Lady  Dangerfieid,  the  injmed  wife,  in  the  balance,  and  let  us 
see  who  wi'l  kick  tne  beam.  Can  you  pack  to-morrow.  Rose  ? 
I  shall  take  you  to  France  at  once.  Then,  when  you  are  safe 
with  Madame  Landeau,  1  shall  return,  begin  my  search  for 
Dantree,  and  move  heavoi  and  earth  until  I  find  him." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  his  hand. 

"  I  can  be  ready.  I  shall  have  only  one  farewell  to  make, 
and  that  is  to  I  .ady  Cecil  I  wonder  if  she  is  happy — you  have 
heard  her  news,  I  suppose  ?  " 

He  knew  in  an  instant  what  it  was — knew  before  the  words 
weie  quite  uttered.  His  voice — his  grave,  steady  tones — had 
changed  when  he  spoke. 

"  I  have  heard  no  news  of  Lady  Cecil.  What  is  it  yon 
Biean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  her  engagement  to  Sir  Arthur.  He  asked  her  ta 
be  his  wife  on  the  night  of  tl  e  masquerade,  and  she  has  cen- 
sentJHl  He  departed  for  Conawall  early  next  morning.  It 
x^as  Lord  Ruysland  who  told  <is,  and  somehow,  Redmond,  I 
don't  think  she  is  v>^ry  much  hacppier  than  the  rest  of  us,  after 
ail.  He  is  very  wealthy,  and  it  is  tJ)c  desueof  her  father*  i 
%icart,  but  yet  I  think— ^" 

Her  brother  rose  abrupt!)'. 

'*  A  great  deal  of  uovi^^vs^,  ro  doubt.  Rose  You  women 
never  quite  outgrow  youi  i^cjuiinentality     Si;  Aithai,  Tregcnrai 


II 


n  thit  (k' 
ger.'  L»i 
the  pre»- 
f  course, 
wood,  th? 
i  and  hk 
dleged  to 
u  able  to 

IS  more  at 
tiuUerable 
and  help, 
;o  at  once. 
,   what    a 

)uth  grew 
gerfield  or 
tcast,  and 
and  let  us 
ow,  Rose  ? 
)U  are  safe 
search  for 
11." 

1  to  make, 
you  have 

the  wordB 

loes — had 

is  it  you 

:ed  her  to 
has  ccn- 
krning.  It 
(edmond,  I 
)f  us,  after 

;r  father's 


>u  women 
Tregcniia 


"S/JC    yMAM^    TOO  LATE,'' 


4^3 


is  a  mate  fbar  a  princeas — ab»>  ihofiid  certainly  be  happy  ft 
grows  late,  Rose,  an  i  you  are  not  stronj^.  You  had  b<»ttei 
retire  at  once,  and,  by  c  good  night's  rest,  prepare  yourself  fof 
to-morrow's  flitting.  Good  night,  my  little  sister — let  us  hope 
even  your  clouds  may  have  ibeir  silver  lining." 

He  stooped  and  touchea  n;3  niustached  lips  to  her  paltt 
cheek — then  he  was  gone. 

The  house  was  very  still  as  he  passed  out — a  sort  of  awed 
bush,  as  though  it  were  a  house  of  death  or  mourning,  reigned. 

What  a  contrast  to  the  brilliantly  lit,  brilliantly  tilled  roomi 
of  a  week  ago.  "  Sic  transit ^^  he  said,  as  his  masculine  tread 
echoed  along  tJie  vaulted  hall ;  '*  life's  a  see-saw — up  and 
dowr.  And  Lord  Ruysland's  daughter's  engagement  to  Sir 
A-rthar  Tregenna  is  not  a  week  old,  after  all !  What  of  that 
kittle  romance  Lord  Ruysland  told  me  six  years  ago  in  Tjrry- 
glen  ?  « 

"Ah,  O'Donnell!"  It  was  the  dcbonnaire  voice  of  Lord 
Ruysland  himself  that  spoke.  "  Glad  to  see  you  again — glad 
to  see  any  human  being  in  this  rniseraWe  house.  I  suppose 
you  have  heard  all — devil  of  an  affair  altog<.'ther.  May  Old 
i\ick  fly  away  with  Miss  Herncastle.  Who  ever  heard  of  such 
a  proceeding  before.  I ):  cssiing.  «herself  u[)  in  Frank^and's 
clothes,  and  deceiving  even  Girievra  I  Gad  !  she's  a  wonderful 
woman  !  And  what  the  dickens  did  she  do  it  for  ?  Out  of 
pure,  innate  malevolence,  and  nothirs^t.  else,  1  believe  in  my 
soul" 

"But  it  has  not  been  proven  that  it  really  was  Miss  llein- 
castle,"  O'Donnell  said;  "you  all  appear  to  have  taken  that 
for  granted     She  has  not  pleaded  guilty,  has  she  ?  and  yo«jr 
evidence — conclusive  though  it  rn.ay  be,  is  purely  circuyrv*  </i 
tial.     She  owns  to  nothing  but  having  torn  up  the  note. ' 

''She  owns  to  notlrlng  certainly,  but  there  is  such  a  tioui^  aa 
moral  certainty.  It  n»ay  r  ^'••.  be  evidence  in  a  court,  ^ti  law, 
but  it  i3  quite  sufiicient  i.  <:ommit  li  cul]jrit  in  the  domestic 
mbunai.  Miss  Herndif/ik  %oic  the  knight's  dress,  and  went 
*;;  the  ball,  and  has  got  Lat'^  Dangerfield  into  a  most  infenial 
X'rape.     That  is  clear." 

"  Nothing  is  rlesj  to  m  bu'  that  \  .aoy  Dangerfield  has  got 
$a*:iseif  into  a  scrape,  O'DoniviH  answered  with  the  stubborn 
.lOStice  that  was  part  of  his  -  -iractei.  "  ( Jive  ttie  devd  iua 
due;  Lord  Rayslanti  Mi>.  Hern/  a-tl-  made  the  dress  for 
I,ady  Da!igerfu.:ld  'r.^^  Mi;".s  iic-rncjstir  ccaiid  not  compel  h«i 
fe)  wear  it  io  Mrs.  Evv;rl«~i;,h''->  ina3.4u:iade  a^adcst  Sir  reicr** 


'r 


464 


"SIX   rJUMA   TOO  J^TM." 


m^ : 


u  n' 


(ill 


f','    i 


*tipresi  cumnunds.  Misfe  Hcrnca&tle  may  have  wort  dw 
major's  dress  and  gone  to  Wit  masquerade  as  Lara,  bat  I  doubt 
if  seeing  her  there  influenced  Sir  Peter  one  way  or  other.  His 
wife  disobeyed  h''m— she  went  to  Mrs.  Everleigh's  in  male  at- 
tire— defying  hi:>  hreats  and  tl>e  consequences.  She  is  no 
thild  to  be  led  by  Mitjs  Herncasae  or  aiiy  one  else—she  weni 
with  her  eyeis  open,  know'ng  hei  danger,  and  1  must  say — think 
;vhat  you  please — that  in  Sir  Peter's  place  I  would  do  precisely 
(flrhat  Sir  Peter  is  doing." 

"  1  don't  doubt  it,"  the  earl  responded  dryly ;  "  be  good 
enough  not  to  say  so  to  Sir  Peter,  however,  should  you  see  him 
He  is  sufficiently  bitter  without  aiding  or  abetting." 

**  I  am  hardly  likely  to  see  him.  My  sister  leaves  Scarswood 
to-morrow — Castleford  the  day  after.  1  will  take  her  to  France 
and  place  her  in  charge  of  a  friend  of  ours  there.  Of  course 
it  is  quite  impossible  now  Ibstser  to  remain  here  an  hour  longer 
than  necessary.  I  am  sorry  S£>r  Lady  Dangerfield — she  has  been 
most  kind  to  Rose — most  hospitable  to  me.  I  serioi'^^y  trurt 
this  disagreeable  affair  may  t^nd  -iinicably  after  all." 

"  Yes,  I  hoi)e  so,"  the  earl  a)i5.vered  coolly  ;  "but  I  doubt  it. 
li  is  hard  on  Lady  Dangerfield- -she  may  have  her  faults  and 
her  follies — who  has  not  ?  V^nx  with  tliem  all,  Ginevra  was  as 
iolly  a  little  soul  as  evej  lived.  And  it's  a  confounded  bore  for 
me,  now  that  everything  is  setiled — "  and  he  stopped  suddenly 
and  looked  askance  at  his  companion. 

"You  allude  to  Lac'y  Cecil's  enga/jement,  I  presume," 
O'Donnell  supplemented,  quite  calmly,  '*  Rose  has  told  me. 
My  only  surprise  is,  that  it  should  be  announced  at  this  late 
day  as  news.  J  believe  1  am  correct  in  thinking  it  a  very  old 
affair  indeed--of  six  years'  standing,  or  more." 

Very  few  people  ever  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  Raoul, 
TsjX  of  Ruysland,  at  a  loss,  but  for  one  brief  moment  he  was 
\t  a  loss  now. 

**  Ver)'  old  afSaif — oh,  yes,  very-— ever  since  his  father's  death 
-  in  fact,  it  has  been  tacitly — ot— understood — nothing  definite 
-aw — too  young,  of  course,  &sd  g.11  that  sort  of  thing.  It  wsa 
■he  desire  of  the  late  Sir  Joha^  '^s  H-ell  as  myself,  and — er — th« 
v»ung  people  were  by  no  mea"^;'  »;  ers?  to  carr)  ing  out  our  wishes. 
t\\\  is  happily  settled  now — the  wedding  will  take  i)lace  without 
iny  unnecessary  delay.  Are  you  going  to  Castleford  at  once  ? 
I  should  like  hab  an  hours  coiiveisaiion  with  you  about,"  h« 
lowered  lis  voicc^^ — "about  Ki^  Hernc^  «le  ;  1  have  placed  a 
defective  oa  her  track. 


^oriv  cli« 
1 1  doubt 
ler.    His 

male  at- 
ihe  is  no 
-she  went 
ly — tkinik 

precisely 

*be  good 
11  see  him 

>caiswood 
to  France 
Of  course 
our  longer 
e  has  been 
orr.^y  trurt 

I  doubt  it. 

faults  and 
:vra  was  as 
cA  bore  for 
suddenly 

presume," 
.s  told  me. 
lat  this  late 

a  very  old 

[see  Raoul, 
int  he  was 

Iher's  death 
|ng  deftnite 
ig.  It  waa 
|cl — er— th« 
OUT  wishes. 
Ice  without 
Id  at  f^ncc  f 

1  abouV'  ^A« 
,  e  placed  a 


*»  9rX    VEAMJl    f'C&    I  ATE''' 


ffiS 


'*'\lL'j  lord  I  "  there  wa^  ^  •HiJimstakable  shock  in  ;he  words. 

•*  A  detective  on  her  tracii-.'  repeated  the  «*arl.  '•  Take  my 
v.i.fcji,  O'Donnell,  that  wonr>?ii^  ms-an^  mi"  '■•*'  and  will  do  rt 
vcrv  ni  forestall  her  ^'f  I  c:i<n— I'll  tind  ..  n-ho  sh-^  is  and 
U'hat  brought  her  here,  b-.'ft>rr  1  a;^i  :nany  weeks  older.  1  liave 
shea/jy  discv')verf:d — "  He  t^-va-acd — rhc  iigure  of  a  man  wm 
Approaching  them  through  the  di«.»kncj,s.  *'Dav5s?"  the  par! 
sa'  1  interrogatively,  "is  that  you  ?  " 

''  All  right,  my  lord."  Thf  snan  piillfd  off  his  cap,  halted, 
and  looked  keenly  at  O'Donneil, 

"'■  Cio  into  tJie  library,  Oavis — I'll  follow  and  hear  your  re 
port." 

The  man  bowed  obse«jnion.'<ly  again,  and  wtnt.  Lord  Ruys 
land  turned  to  his  companion. 

"  That's  my  detective  ;  \:-.  ?  ttvasier  of  his  business,  keen  a8 
a  ferret.     1  must  go  and  he*'.?  nis  report — ii  wil)  not  detain  ivi 
long.     Then   I'll  tell  you  all,  and  i  tliink   you'll  acknowledge 
Miss  Hcrncastie  i^^  worth  the   watching.     Wait  for  iuc  in  the 
dniv-'ing-room — Cecil's  there,  and  will  amuse  yon." 

He  left  him  and  hurried  awav. 

The  chasseur  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment — then,  as  if  hir 
determination  was  taken,  turned  and  vv^aikcd  into  the  drawing 
rcxjm. 

He  might  have  thought  it  deserted  hst  for  the  low  sound  of 
singing  that  came  forth.  The  lights  cs^cra  down — there  was  no 
one  to  be  seen,  but  far  of?  ti  the  recess  where  the  piano  stood 
he  caught  a  glimp«e  of  a  white  dress  and  the  gleam  of  a  dia- 
mond star.  Very  sottiy,  very  sweetly  she  sang  an  old  ballad 
that  he  had  been  wont  to  sing  bng  ago  in  the  little  cottage 
parlor  at  Torryglen  whilst  her  white  fingers  stnick  the  accompA 
niment.  He  crossed  over  and  leaned  with  folded  arms  againti 
the  instrument.     She  iooJtssK^  up  at  him  with  a  smile  and  sajij 

••  Oh,  I  teved  in  asy  yw?ri -,  ^  aAjc  fak. 
For  iicr  aKsne  eya>  «»()  '^■n  foi^n  hsht 
Oh,  tnily,  oh,  tnily,  I  Wad  Swa-  tb«i», 
Ami  aaught  shili  I  e»«  go  lo*w  «i«ia 
Sa^vqi  oay  n^twk,  Kisj  ray  iitn^iiui!,  vcni.  my  red  rctasi  «itMid, 
Fw  thtty  uevttT  (aUed  ia  «f  j&e«e<<>f  needl." 

She  Stopped  and  glanced  up  %X  him  again,  flis  eyes  wert 
%%f:.Q^  upon  her,  a  steady,  thoughtful,  almost  stem  gaze.  Again 
sh«  smiled. 

'*  How  fierce  the  look  this  exile  wears  who's  wont  to  be  m 
gAy      Captain  ODonneli,  whai  i»  it  ?" 


i.1lf 


i. .  r 


466 


"Six    YBAPi   T»^    KATE." 


nr 


hi;!;.'!: 


m 


Hie  daai^  gmvit/  of  his  UsyXfi:  brok«  into  an  answering  smiley 
ftdll  a  grave  ^ne. 

"  '  Fic  treasured  wiong*  of  six  years  back  are  in  my  heart 
to-day,'     I  .ady  Cecilj  my  sister  and  your  father  have  told  rrw^ 
all.     To-moiTow  I  leave  Sc*  -'^ood,  the  day  after  Castl'^ford, 
m  all  likelihood  forever      Beiibr^  I  go  let  me  piesent  my  coc 
crjatulations  to  the  future  Lady  Cecil  Tregenna." 

Siie  turned  suddenly  away  trom  him,  her  head  drooped,  a 
J*r"P,  ]»ai!iful,  burning  flush  :.^5e  up  to  the  very  roots  of  her 
hair.  As  she  sang  the  old  song,  as  he  stood  beside  her  in  the 
old  way,  the  old,  glad  days  had  come  back,  the  golden  days 
of  her  fti'it  youth.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  and  the  jiresent  had 
fAded  for  a  moment  as  a  dream,  and  Tonyglen  and  her  love, 
the  only  love  she  had  ever  known,  had  come  back.  And  the 
si>ell  was  broken — f.hus. 

She  could  liot  speak ;  the  keenest  pain,  the  sharpest  pang 
she  had  ever  felt  caught  at  her  heart  like  a  hand.  For  that  first 
instant  even  her  prkle  forsook  hei, 

'  And  1  can  congratulate  yc\J:/'  the  grave,  deep  tones  of  the 
soldier  of  fortune  went  ov,  ''  JS"o  truer  gftntleman,  no  more 
loyal  friend  exists,  nor,  in  the  iiUure,  1  believe  no  more  devoted 
husband  than  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna." 

*'  Late — Miss  HerncastleL  i;'?.ve  and  worshiy)er  !  Pray  add 
ttiat  before  you  Ivnish  your  pa^.i-gyric,  Captain  O'Donnell." 

She  hated  herself  for  trie  passionate  words  the  moment  they 
were  spoken,  for  the  bitterness  of  the  tc»ne,  for  tht  intolerable 
pain  and  jealousy  that  Ibrcod  them  from  her.  It  was  shameful 
fjnough,  bitter  enough,  huniihating  enougii,  surely,  to  know  that 
she  loved  this  man,  as  she  nevir  would  love  the  man  she  was 
to  marry— bad  enough  witi^out  being  forced  to  listen  to  praises 
of  her  betrothed  from  him.  A  deep,  angry  red  liad  risen  in 
either  pearly  cheek,  a  deep,  angry  ilame  burned  in  either  eye. 
His  calm,  friendly  inditfer'^nce,  the  cool  gravity  of  his  look  and 
tone  were  more  than  she  could  bear. 

"  Miss  Hemcastle's  slave,"  he  repeated :  **  no,  Lady  Cecil  ; 
never  quite  that,  I  think.  Her  admirer,  perhaps,  ii  you  like. 
Miss  Hemcastle  happens  to  fe«  one  ol  those  remarkable  women 
whom  almost  all  men  admific' 

"  We  -    n't  split  hairs  i?vef  it     ??»  Arthur  is,  a?  yoo  say,  an 
honorable  gcs  f 'j"tr.;an  ,  to  that  high  sense  of  honor,  no  doubt,  I 
am  indebted  fc*  ^ly  present  feiic»-.v.     K  he  were  free  to  choose* 
!  fear  yfv!i  '♦rmii!  ?isrdh  back  my  c.:\ances  to  win  against 
of  Lad.'  J>t»r  "^rf -*ds''^  hi-ti^.  gOT^^imess      !   thank  vf»v 


ii 


ng  MnQfi^ 

my  heart 

told  m* 

;astl'»ford» 

t  my  coc 

Irooped,  a 
>ts  of  h«r 
her  in  the 
Iden  days 
esent  had 
her  love, 
And  the 

rpest  pang 
or  that  first 


)nes  of  the 
1,  no  more 
)re  devoted 


Pray  add 
nnell" 
inent  they 
intolerable 
IS  shameful 

know  that 
an  she  was 

to  praised 
ad  risen  in 
either  eye. 
is  look  ami 

.ady  Cecil  ; 
you  like, 
ible  women 

ytm  say,  »« 
o  doubt,  I 
;  tocho'r^^^ 
amst 


'•SIX    VEAJLS    TOO    LATB,** 


4^ 


congratiilador.s  all  ^e  same,  «^i  accept  them  for  exactly  irhat 
they  are  worth/* 

She  made  a  motion  as  ihough  to  end  the  subject,  but  thQ 
chasi;eur,  still  leaning  against  tlie  piano,  had  no  present  idea  ci 
fsnding  it 

*•  Miss  Hemcastie,"  he  resumed  coolly,  "  is,  as  I  have  often 
uud  before,  a  very  extraordinary  woman,  and  to  be  judged  bj* 
BO  ordinary  niles.  Without  any  pretension  to  personal  beaut}', 
beyond  a  stately  figure,  a  graceful  walk,  and  a  low  sweet  voice 
— that  *  most  excellent  thing  in  woman  ' — she  will  yet  fascinate 
where  a  merely  beautiful  woman  mav  fail.  Siie  is  one  of  tljose 
sorceresses  whose  fatal  spell  of  fascination  fev.'  \r\-xy  encounte: 
and  escape." 

"And  Caj)tain  O'Donr^lc  is  one  of  those  fortunate  few. 
But  then,  if  Miss  Hemr^^?  '  ;  b'^-  an  extraordinary  woman, 
Captain  O'Donnell  is  a  ati?!  iJlor?  «=!xTraordinary  man— extra- 
frdinary  for  his  hardne«s,  ajvd  coldness,  and  impenetrability  if 
hx  nothing  else.  The  spcU  oi  the  enchantress  has  at  least 
be*»n  powerless  for  him" 

"  Quite  right,  Lady  CeciL  ft  has  been  powerless,  perhaps, 
as  you  say,  because  I  am  aaturally  flinty,  or  because  I  have 
lain  for  years  under  anothej  spell  equally  fatal,  and  the  one 
has  counteracted  the  other." 

She  laughed  satirically,  and  began  playing  a  waltz. 

"  The  beau  chasseur  under  a  spell  I     Impossible  to  imagine 
such  a  thing.     Who  is  the  sorceress  ?    Some  Diamond  o    tlie 
Desert? — some   Pearl   of    the  Plains? — some  lovely  Ai^ 
daughter?     What" 

"Shall  I  really  teU  yo^i,  laAy  Cecil?" 

"  Just  as  you  plea«e/'  the  white  iiands  stiii  played  nimbb 
"Perhaps  you  had   better  not.  though.     Love  stories   ' 
trite  subject — so   old,  so   a^WfMi/   '^ommonplace — the> 
me  to  death,  either  in  bouiii  o/  /e^-i  f4e      And  1  don'l  t; 
£9  in  your  nature  to  have  the  diseas*  /er/  badly      I  he 
ftdrnire  my  waltz — it  is  of  my  own  cor/ipos-  /      I  car 
Rose  V/alt£.  and  dedicate  it  to  Miss  i?j08e  O  f^y/-f.ell.' 

"  I  like  it,  but  I  liked  the  aoDi^,  I  heard  you  hh^u^  * 
In  better — my  song,  Iddy  Ce^  Do  you  remembe/  rx<  Uat 
time  1  sang  it  staiJiding  beside  y*«i  m  the  Uttle  parlor  ai  orr  / 
glen,  as  1  stand  now?  Yoti  '^^Iftyiag,  and  your  father  asleep  ir 
hii:  arm  chair — or  was  he  o*ly  pretending  sleep,  and  watcb 
ing  us  ?  The  last  time,  Lady  Cecil,  though  1  did  not  hnow 
h." 


y-'i 


n. 
a 
»re 

«  It 

/oa 

am? 


• 


(    :h 


(i: 


k 


mp:  i  ; 


4^8  "- 

Slivi  made  no  reply.  She  sriLl  played  on  the  Rose  WalU,  bat 
i^e  struck  the  chords  at  random. 

"  1  remember  it  so  well.  You  were  dressed  in  white  aByou 
are  novv.  White  is  your  httiop'^  color,  Lady  Cecil.  You  had 
wild  roses  in  your  hair,  and  'i-  :•  iang  iogether  all  evening,  ind 
tr-ajccly  S[)oke  a  word  Yori  Mi*yc  changed  since  then — grown 
taller,  more  womanly  ;  more  beautiful,  and  yet — -will  yuu  b< 
.^ffeikded  I  I  think  I  liked  the  'Queenie'  of  Ton^'glen  better 
•'ihan  the  Za  Rdne  Blanche  of  Scarswood." 

"Captain  O'DonncU's  meniiory  is  good,"  she  answered,  w 
lie  paused,  not  looking  at  hl»n  ;  ^'better  than  1  ever  gave  hin* 
nrredit  for.  I  renieuiber  the  evening  he  alludes  to  very  veil 
the  last,  though  /  did  not  know  it  either.  And  will  he  h 
offended  if  1  tell  him  1  liked  th'^  55.edniond  O'Doraiell  who  saved 
my  life,  who  sang  songs,  and  who  was  neither  blase  nor  cynical, 
much  better  than  the  dashing'  Chasseur  d'Afri<iue  of  six  years 
later  ?  I  fear  time  improves  neither  of  us  ,  i  have  grown 
worldly,  you  a  cynic.  What  wi3!  we  be  ten  years  hence,  I  won' 
der?" 

"  I  think  1  can  answer  \V>4i9riU  be  l.ady  Cecil  Trtgenna, 
the  fairest;  the  loveliest,  the  gentlest  of  England's  stalely 
matrons,  the  most  loving  of  wives,  the  most  lender  of  friends — 
*  a  perfect  woman  nobly  p  ..led.'  I  shall  be — v^'cll,  perhaps  a 
Colonel  of  Chasseurs,  the  highest  promotion  I  can  hope  for, 
with  a  complexion  of  burnt  sienna— or — or  else  occupying  six 
feet  of  Algerian  soil,  in  either  event  I  am  most  unlikely  ever 
to  meet^^w  again  ;  and  so  to-night,  before  we  say  our  fmal  fare- 
well, I  think,  in  spite  of  your  dislike  to  love  stories,  1  must  tell 
you  one.  Not  my  own  ;  you  think  me  too  hard  for  any  s".ch 
tenderness,  and  ptrrhaps  you  are  right.  Let  us  say  a  friend  o^ 
mine — an  Irishman  too— now  an  Algerian  soldier  like  myself. 
Will  it  bore  you  very  much  to  listen.  Lady  Cecil?" 

"  Go  on,    she  said,  faintly, 

*'  It  was — well,  a  number  of  vears  ago — when  my  friend  was 
little  better  than  a  hobbledehoy  of  two-or-three-and-twenty,  with 
s  head  full  of  romance  and  chivalry,  an  inflapimabie  heart, 
and  an  empty  purse.  He  h«td  a  long  lineage,  an  old  riame,  « 
ruined  homestead,  a  suit  of  peasftot's  Clothes,  and  nothmg  else. 
He  lived  alone — a  dreamer's  life,  ^H  of  vague,  splendid  hopef 
for  the  future,  and  trou!3led  with  very  little  of  that  usefol  com- 
modity— coriimon-senw? 

"  One  stormy  autumn  cvenins  me  romance  of  his  life  bcg-an. 
An  English  |>ecr  and  his  only  daughter  c:imfi  to  his  neighba*' 


s  aByott 

''ou  had 
ing,  snd 
— growTJ 
you  \A 
n  bettcJ 

yrer<;d,  a! 
rave  hit" 
-y  veil 
iU  He  h 
^ho  saved 
t  cynicalf 
six  years 
^e  grown 
ce,  1  won- 

Frtgenr.a, 
I's   stalely 
I  friends — 
perhaps  a 
hope  fur, 
ipying  six 
ikely  ever 
final  fare- 
must  tell 
any  s".ch 
friend  ^>^ 
e  myacli. 


friend  was 
[enty,  with 
Itle  heart, 
nanie,  a 
thing  else 
idid  hop« 
Isefol  com- 

^ife  began- 
neigbbat:* 


•J/JT    ySAJtS   TOO   l^TEr 


.469 


bcxxl  to  reside  ^Oi  a  time,  and  it  cnanced  that  his  good  foitmie 
enabled  hiJi^  tO  do  the  peer's  daughter  a  servic:'.  They  wer« 
very  graci^as,  very  grateful,  and  showed  it  in  man}- kindly  ways. 
They  overlooked  the  peasiuit's  dress,  the  stupid  bashfulness  cJ 
my  young  friend,  and  invited  !)bi  to  their  house,  to  their  table 
—he  became  tho  English  girl's  daily  coin[)aniv:)n  and  friend. 
And  his  brain  was  turned.  1  told  yju  he  was  a  dreamer — he 
Itnew  nothing  of  the  world  and  its  codes,  was  destitute  ca 
common-sense,  and  he  fell  madly  in  love  with  the  earl's  daugh 
ter,  1  ?hall  not  tell  you  how  lovely  she  was  at  sixteen — on^ 
lady  they  say  does  not  care  to  hear  another  praised.  In  tho&€ 
days  I — my  friend,  I  mean — was  poetic,  and  two  lines  from  on* 
oli  his  poets  describes  her  : 

'  A  Vmicj  bdaf,  acaitxly  formed  oi  molded, 
A  roM  with  all  k«  sweetest  leaves  ytt  folded.' 

*  A  rose  with  all  its  sweeteff  leaves  yet  folded,'  a  pretty  idea  and 
a  correct  one.  He  fell  ia  ?#ve  with  her — I  have  said  she  was 
sweet  and  gracious,  gentls  aafil  kind — as  a  fair  young  qaeen 
might  be  to  a  peasant  whis  : .-ad  done  her  a  service — too  great 
not  to  be  grateful.  And  fi&-  he  was  a  fool — he  r  :  *.'jk  it- 
mistook  her.  Will  you  believe  it^  l.ady  Cecil,  v;}'<.  I  tell 
you  this  enthusiastic  yonng  Irish  idiot  believed  his  pasi;ion  re- 
turned, and  actually  deemed  that  for  love  of  a  raw  mountarn 
lad,  without  a  farthing  in  his  purse,  she  would  wait  until  he  had 
won  name,  and  fame,  and  fortune,  and  become  his  wife.  He 
^niles  and  wonders  at  his  own  inconceivable  imbecility  when 
he  thinks  of  it  now. 

"  I  have  one  thing  to  say  in  his  favor — he  didn't  tell  her. 
When  this  fooUsh  passion  of  his  grew  too  great  for  one  heart  to 
bear,  he  went  to  her  father  and  made  his  confession  to  him.  1 
can  imagine  how  this  worldly  wise  peer — this  ambitious  English 
nobleman,  laughed  in  his  sleeve  as  he  listened — it  wasn't  worth 
gjowing  serious  over,  and  in  his  way  he  rather  liked  the  lad. 
He  was  wise  enough  not  to  laugh  aloud  however — if  the  young 
Irishman  had  been  a  duke  he  could  not  have  entertained  his 
fiiad  proposal  with  more  gravity  and  courtesy.  His  daughtei 
had  been  engaged  froai  her  fourteenth  year  to  a  CornisJi  baronet 
<  f  fabulous  wealth,  and  wa?  u»  marry  him  in  a  year  or  two  at 
the  most.  Was  it  possib."*:  ihe  had  not  told  him  ?  No,  that 
tft'-'is  strange,  certainly.  Hi'^Ts^sver,  her  father  could  speak  to 
f»e!-  -if  her  heart  inclined  hftff  m  Irish  love  in  a  cotUxge  instead 
of  Cornish  snlirndoT,    »hy — far  be  it  (rcjrrii  hirn  to  go  l)etwef»p 


1.     i, 


(.  H 


a  ii 


4 


Iff 


470 


••SIX    k'EAJfS   TOO   LATA.** 


*  two  souls  with  but  m  sin^  ihocght,  two  hearts  ihat  beal  «• 
one,'  etc.  He  was  to  go  tc-'/aght — to  conic  to-morrow  and  ro 
ceive  his  answer  from  herself  Only,  in  the  meantime — this  last 
evening,  he  was  not  to  broach  directly,  or  indirectly,  the  ten- 
<1er  subject  to  her,  and  to-morrow  he  was  religiously  to  absent 
himself  from  their  cottage  all  day.  In  short,  the  English  uecf 
I  dealt  with  a  fool  accordmg  to  his  folly. 

"  My  friend  has  told  me,  as  we  lay  and  smoked,  Lady  Cecil, 
•with  the  stars  of  Africa  shining  on  our  bivouac — that  that 
evening  stands  out  distinct  from  all  other  evenings  in  his  life, 
and  will,  until  his  dying  day.  Evei^'  detail  of  the  picture — the 
quiet,  wax-lit  room — the  earl  feigning  sleep,  the  better  to  watch 
theni,  in  his  chair — the  cai\dl$8  burning  on  the  piano  and  il- 
luminating her  fair  Madoni^  SiCe — the  cold,  autumnal  moon- 
light sleeping  on  the  brown  backs  of  heather  without — the  white 
dress  she  wore — the  roses  in  her  hair,  gathered  by  his  hand — 
the  songs  she  sang — the  sweet,  tremulous,  ten:ier  light  all  over 
the  lovely  face.  It  will  remain  with  him — hauiit  him  until  his 
heart  ceases  to  beat  They  have  met  since  then,  but  never 
VK^^m  like  that — young,  fresH^  trusting,  and  unspotted  from  the 
world. 

"  Nca  day  came.  They  had  parted  without  a  word — he 
had  passed  a  sleepless  night,  and  at  daybreak  had  ridden  away 
— true  to  his  promise  in  spirit  as  in  letter.  Evening  came  and 
brought  him — for  *.he  answer  he  hoped,  he  believed  would  be 
tr.c.  He  had  wor  :ed  himself  up  into  a  fever  of  loving  and 
longing,  he  flew  do  vn  the  valley  to  the  casket  that  held  his 
pearl  of  price.  What  do  you  think  he  found  ?  A  deserted 
house-  -an  empty  cage — the  birds  flown.  Two  notes  were 
{)laccd  in  his  hand  by  a  servant,  who  sneered  at  him  as  he  gave 
them — two  brief,  cold,  hard  notes  of  farewell — that  struck  hira 
more  brutally  than  blows — one  from  her,  one  from  her  father. 
It  was  the  old  hackneyed,  stereotyped  form — she  was  sorry — 
did  not  dream  that  he  cared  for  her—was  engaged  to  another 
-  it  was  better  she  should  go,  and  she  was  always  his  friend, 
St  cetera.  It  was  written  in  her  handwriting  and  signed  with 
her  name — her  father's  indorsed  it. 

"  II  was  only  what  he  richJv  deserved — you  and  I  can  see 
th&t — for  his  presumption,  hia  madness — the  only  answer  that 
could  be  given  ;  but  Lady  C^il,  men  have  gone  mad  or  dics3 
for  less.  In  one  night-  ^om  8j  enthusiastic  boy — tmsting  ai'. 
men — he  became  what  t®o  cail  me — a  hard,  cold  skeptic,  with 
t>o  tnj<;t  in  man,  no  feftn  in  woman,  a  cynic  and  a  scoffer  in  a 


•«.f/x  YjsAJis  TOO  late: 


471 


^  and  t^ 

,  the  ten- 
to  absent 

ady  Cecil, 
-that  that 
in  his  Ufe, 
cture— the 
er  to  watch 
iano  and  il- 
nnal  moon- 
_— the  white 
•  his  hand— 
ight  all  over 
lim  until  his 
n,  but  never 
■ted  fron>  the 

a  word— he 
.  ridden  away 
ing  came  and 
Led  would  be 
)f  loving  and 
ithat  held  his 
A  deserted 
3  notes  were 
dm  as  he  gave 
tat  struck  him 
:,ni  her  father. 
le  was  sorry- 
red  to  another 
ays  his  friend, 
\a  signed  with 

^  I  can  sec 
[ly  answer  that 
le  mad  or  d'.c^ 
Ly^tnisting  al- 
ia skeptic,  with 

a  scoffer  m  a 


bight.  Jic  learnt  his  lesson  «r»;U  ;  )eari;  have  gone,  they  have 
cured  him  of  his  folly,  but  k  is  a  folly  thai  has  never  been  re- 
peated, and  never  will  to  his  dying  day.  Only — when  they 
meet  in  after  diys,  do  yen  think  shf  of  all  the  women  on  earth 
should  be  the  first  to  reproach  him  with  his  hardness,  his  CGld- 
!\ess,  his  unbelief?  She  taught  him  his  lesson — should  she  find 
fault  if  he  is  an  apt  pupil  ?  " 

He  paased.  His  voice  had  not  '-isen — in  the  low,  grave  ton* 
she  knew  so  well,  he  had  told  his  story  ;  an  undertone  of  sad' 
ness  and  cynicism  mnning  througn  all.  Fhere  was  a  half  smile 
on  his  face  as  he  looked  at  her  and  waited  for  his  answer. 

She  started  to  her  feet — the  angry  flush  had  long  since  left 
hsf  face — she  stood  before  him,  pale  to  the  lips — her  brown 
eyes  met  his  full. 

*'  Captain  O'Donnell,  what  story  is  this?     Is  it — is  it — " 

"  My  own,  Lady  Cecil  ^  Yes  ;  you  hardly  need  ask  the  ques- 
tion, I  think." 

"  Need  I  not  ?  Yours  /  And  what  letter  is  this  you  talk  o^ 
written  by  my  hand  and  signed  with  my  name.  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"You  don't  understand  A  few  minutes  ago  you  accused 
me  of  a  defective  memoiy.  S>ul  I  suppose  a  matter  of  such 
trifling  import  could  not  be  e3q>ected  to  remain  in  your  mem- 
ory. 1  mean  the  letter  you  wrote  me,  rejecting  my  presump- 
tuous suit — telling  me  ot  your  engagement  to  Sir  Arthw  Tre- 
genua,  the  night  before  you  left  Torryglen." 

**  I  never  wrote  any  such  letter." 

"  Lady  Cecil !  " 

'*  I  never  wrote  any  such- — " 

She  paused  suddenly.  Over  her  face  there  rose  a  flush,  hei 
liands  clasped  together — she  looked  at  him,  a  sudden  light 
breaking  upon  her. 

"  The  note  papa  dictated,  arid  which  he  made  me  write/* 
«he  said  in  a  sort  of  whisper.     *•  Redmond,  I  see  it  all  1 " 

The  old  name,  the  thrill  his  heart  gave  as  he  heard  it  In 
the  days  that  were  gone  ir  had  been  "  Redmond "  and 
"  Queenie  "  always. 

"  It  is  my  turn  not  to  aa<'-r8tand  Will  you  explain^  Lad;* 
Cecil  ?  1  certainly  read  'rh^  note,  written  and  signed  by 
you." 

"  1  know,  1  know^."  SS'--  r-^nk  back  into  her  seat  ar.d  idiadesd 
her  eyes  with  her  h»nd.  *^  A  <«e  ail  now.  Papa  dcc/jived  «s 
both." 


(    •'; 


81    «' 


47a 


**S/X    y£AJtS   TOO  LATE.'* 


in  A  broken  roice,  in  bri«^  voaIb,  she  told  him  the  itory  cH 
that  note. 

*'  Papa  told  me  nothing — nothing.  I  did  not  know,  I  neve?' 
dieamed  it  was  for  you.  And  he  hurried  me  away  without  a 
word  of  explanation  or  wariiing.  I  see  it  all  now.  And  the 
hard  things  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  all  these  years,  dia 
hard  things  you  must  have  thought  of  me  I  You  who  savc^ 
tayUfe,  Captain  O'Donnell,"  with  sudden  passion,  **what  musf 
l?oa  have  thought  of  me  ?  " 

He  smiled  again. 

'<  Very  bitter  things  in  the  past,  Queenie — in  the  long  past 
Of  late  years,  as  I  grew  in  wisdom  and  in  grace,  I  began  io  see 
your  father  acted  as  most  fathers  would  have  acted,  and  acted 
right.  I  don't  mean  to  defend  the  duplicity  of  part  of  it,  but 
at  ]«a?t  he  avoided  a  scene — no  inconsiderable  gain.  All  the 
wisdom  of  a  Solomon  and  all  the  eloquence  of  a  Demosthenes 
could  not  have  made  me  see  my  folly  in  the  proper  light — the 
utter  impossibility  of  my  being  ever  any  other  than  friend  to 
Lord  Ruysland's  daughter.  I  would  have  persisted  in  falling  at 
your  feet,  in  pouring  forth  ti^f;  tile  of  my  madness,  and  succeed- 
ing in  distressing  you  bey«E-'J  measure.  Your  father  foresaw 
all  that,  and  foresUlled  it — he  could  scarcely  have  acted  othei- 
wise  than  as  he  did." 

''And  Captaia  O'Donnell,  who  might  have  been  taken  at 
his  word  by  a  girl  of  sixteen,  as  silly  as  himself,  is  only  too 
thankful  for  his  hair-breadth  escape.  I  understand,  sir — you 
don't  know  what  good  reason  you  have  to  thank  Lord  Ruys- 
land's common-sense.  I  only  wonder  the  matter  having  ended 
80  well — for  you — you  care  to  allude  to  the  subject  at  all." 

•'  Only  too  thankful  for  my  hair-breadth  escape  ! "  he  repeated 
^  Queenie,  if  I  had  spoken — if  you  had  knoum  /  " 

'*  But  you  did  not,"  she  interrupted,  coldly,  "  so  we  will  not 
discuss  the  question.  You  have  escaped,  that  is  enough  for 
you.  I  am  Sir  Arthiur  Tregenna's  affianced  wife,  that  is 
enough  for  me.     I  ask  again,  why  have  you  spoken  at  all  ?  " 

"  Because  I  could  not — hard,  cold,  inmovable  as  you  think  me 
—  I  couid  not  part  with  you  again — this  time  forever — without 
ftnonring  whether  or  no  you  really  wrote  my  death-warrant  sir 
years  ago.  It  wa.s  so  unlike  you — it  has  rankled  sc  bitterly  aU 
those  years,  and  of  late  the  tmth  began  to  dawn  npun  rote. 
T  "rhaps  because  the  old,  swe«t  madness  has  never  left  m* ;  ^md 
wher  we  have  parted — when  you  are  a  happy  wife  and  I  aifi 
back  in  Al^pnrs — the  nappiness  of  ^snowing  Oueenie  was  all  I 


**SIX    VILA  A3    TOO  LATE."* 


4f| 


itory  01 

I  n€ve^ 
ithout  a 
^.nd  the 
tais,  th« 
lo  savci 
hat  voxOi 


ong  ps^st. 
an  to  sec 
and  acted 
of  it,  but 
.     All  the 
niosthenes 
light— the 
i  friend  to 
in  falling  at 
id  succeed- 
lev  foresaw 
cted  othe.' 

n  taken  at 
is  only  too 
d,  sir— yoti 
l.ordRuy* 
iving  ended 

at  all." 

le  repeated 

.  we  will  not 
enough  for 
ife,   that  » 
nataU?" 
irou  think  me 
,ej__witho«^ 
ih-warrant  siy 
\q  bitteily  aU 
Li  upon  ni«. 
[left  m"? ;  s*«<* 
^ife  and  1  m» 
lie  wa»  »11  * 


thought  her — ray  little  love,  rny  true  friend,  and  not  even  at  sur 
teen  a  coquette,  a  triflcr  with  Loen's  hearts— will  repay  me  U» 
all  I  have  lost." 

He  stopped  abruptly.  She  had  covered  her  face  with  both 
hjiids,  and  he  could  see  the  tears  that  fell  thick  and  fast. 

"  Sir  Arthui  Tregenna  is  my  friend,"  he  said,  his  own  voic? 
broken.  " Heaven  knows  I  have  no  wish  to  say  one  worl  h? 
t^ay  not  hear,  but,  Queeni<%  1  must  speak  to  nighf  fo-  the  firsi 
—the  last  time.  I  have  loved  you — 1  do  love  you — 1  will  love 
you  while  life  lasts.  If  fate  had  willed  it  otherwise— if  rank 
arid  fortune  had  been  mine  years  ago,  they  would  have  been 
laid  at  your  feet,  where  my  heart  has  been  all  these  yeans. 
Free  or  plighted,  I  know  well  h<iw  utterly,  wildly  impossihle  it 
would  be  for  you  to  listen  to  me.  It  may  be  a  dastardly  dee-^f 
to  speak  at  all,  but  I  must.  You  pity  me,  at  least.  Ah  . 
Oueenie,  I  would  not  hav\;  »»he  past  changfl,  v/itli  all  its  suffer- 
ing, its  lov,s,  its  misery,  if  1  could.  The  thought  of  you  is  the 
sweetest  thought  of  my  lif*»  If  I  have  distressed  you  by 
speaking,  I  ain  sorry.  Forgive  me,  Queenie,  for  this  and  all 
tlie  rest." 

Forgive  I  He  asked  no  more.  And  m  that  Instant,  if  he 
had  said,  *'  Come,"  she  wo-Jid  have  left  rank  and  wealth,  father 
and  friends,  and  gone  with  him  to  beggary.  I'.ut  not  for  the 
crown  of  the  world  would  he  have  said  it  He  loved  her — but 
honor  more. 

"J.et  this  be  our  farewell/'  he  said,  gently;  "let  our  real 
parting  be  now.  When  we  say  it  again  it  will  be  before  the 
«^  orld.  We  will  both  be  the  happier,  1  hope,  for  understaiiding 
each  other  at  last ;  you  will  think  me  no  more  a  cynic  and  a 
scoffer — 1  will  know  you  no  more  for  a  heartless  coquette. 
GfKxi-by  Queenie ;  may  God  bless  you  and  make  you 
'laiipy !" 

He  held  out  his  hand ;  she  laid  hers  in  it — the  other  hid  her 
hzQ.  **  Their  hands  clasped  and  the  spirit  kissed."  "  Good. 
by  ! "  she  heard  him  say  again,  holding  her  hand  hard.  Theu 
he  let  it  go,  walked  to  the  door,  looked  back  ouce  oX  ^f 
^{jojiir^  figure,  and  waa  g^m£. 


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33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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4l    CtiAflAM.   «/»    Wlii^D&IL^L 


CRAi'TLK  XXIV. 


A  CHAm>    OF    WOVBERS 


V  ■  ! 


?  ? 


f,1 

m 

f  ■ ;  ;  ' 

f 

1 

1 

j 

Hi 


I'  I) 


|S  ne  crossed  the  thresboUi  of  the  drawing-room  he 
countered  Soantes,  the  tali  footman. 

•*My  lord's  complinu'iits,  Captain  O'Donnell,"  Mfo 
Soaines  «aid,  bowing.     "  His  lordship's  in  the  libnrjr, 
r:a[>tain,  and  re(juests  you  to  wait  upon  hi  in  there." 

O'Donnell  nodded  and  walked  forward  to  the  library— his 
diirk  somber  face  betraying  no  mote  what  had  just  passed  than 
a  handsome  nia'^k  of  bron/.e. 

"Come  in,  O'Donnell,"  the  earl  said,  in  answer  to  his  tap, 
and  the  chasseur  entered  the  library,  closed  the  door,  and  threw 
hiinsclf  into  a  seat 

His  lordship  was  alone — tjie  lamps  burned  brightly,  but  even 
m  their  brilliance  shadows  lurked  in  the  corners  of  the  long 
«;tately  room.    The  curtains  were  drawn  over  the  open  windows, 
Sliutting  out  the  dark,  sultry  ;vairt:imer  oight.     On  a  table  at  the 
carl's  elbow,  wine-glasses  artJ  ..rtgars  stood. 

*'  1  suppose  you're  nearly  c-.U  of  patience  by  this  time,"  his 
hardship  began,  "  but  Davis's  report  was  unusually  lengthy  and 
iuteresdng  this  evening  ;  Davis's  inclination  for  port  wine  was 
even  more  marked  than  usual  The  lower  orders,  as  a  rule,  if 
you  observe,  have  a  weakness  for  port  wine,  the  thicker  and 
Bv^eeter  the  better.  Davis  is  a  clever  fellow,  and  a  skilled  de- 
tective, but  no  exception  to  this  nde.  O'Donnell,"  he  leaned 
forward  and  asked  the  question  with  most  startling  abruptness, 
'*  what  do  you  know  of  Miss  Hemcastle  ?  " 

Hut  the  sang  froid  of  O'Donnell  was  equal  to  his  own — if  he 
thought  to  tlirow  him  off  his  guard  and  read  the  tnith  in  hit 
r-  n fusion,  he  was  mistaken.  Captain  O'Donnell,  lying  at  fall 
kri;^th  back  in  his  chair,  pulling  his  long  trocjper  mustache 
&>oked  across  at  him  ;  the  cot.scious  calm  of  Innocence  in  hir 
furj>rised  blue  eyes. 

"  What  do  I  know  of  Miss  Hemcastle  ?  Well,  not  a  great 
deal,  perhaps,  but  enough  to  convince  me  she  is  s  very  fine 
woman,  a  remarkably  fme  woman,  indeed,  both  mentally  and 
physically.  A  tittle  too  clever,  perhaps,  as  I^dy  Dangerfiel4 
fVi:^£m  to  have  fonnd  out  to  her  cost" 

M  You  won't  tell  toe  then.  Very  well,  Davis  and  1  must  find 
out  for  ooiselves.     Only  it  would  simpii^  uiattcxs  if  you^ivuuU^ 


~..M 


»in  he  tBP» 

iclV  ***- 
ve  librtry, 

)rary—  his 
issed  than 

to  his  tap, 
and  threw 

jr,  but  even 
f  the  long 
n  windows, 
:able  at  the 

s  time,"  his 
lengthy  and 
t  wine  was 
as  a  rule,  if 
thicker  and 
skilled  de- 
he  leaned 
abruptness, 

own — if  he 

tmth  inhii 

Ving  at  full 

mustache. 

:ence  in  hir 

not  a  great 

,  a  very  fine 

penti^y  an^ 
pangerfield 

1  must  find 


m 


A  caA^ajL  or  ti^oAujiJcs. 


and  1   don't  see  why  y^u  duwld  league  yourself  under 
llerncjistle's  piratical  black  fl^^." 

**  Will  your  lordship  think  me  very  stupid  if  1  say  I  really 
don't  understand  ?  " 

"  I  would  if  I  thought  so,  but  1  don't.  O'Donncll,  it's  of  m 
cse  your  fencing  me  with  the  buttons  on.  You  know  more  ol 
Miss  Herncastle  than  you  choose  to  tell-  1  believe  you  met 
her  before  you  met  her  here — in  Algiers  or  in  America.  A 
man  doesn't  take  midnight  rambles,  as  a  rule,  with  a  lady  who^ 
Is  a  perfect  stranger  to  him.  Oh  don't  wear  that  unconscious 
»ook — it  doesn't  deceive  miC.  1  tell  you  I  saw  you  escorting 
Miss  Herncastle  acroftt  the  fields  to  this  house  between  one 
and  two  in  the  morning." 

''  The  deuce  you  did !  And  how  came  Lord  Ruysland  to  be, 
like  sister  Anne,  on  the  wat^o  tower  between  one  and  two  in 
the  morning  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  my  room.  Have  I  told  you  before,  I  can  never 
sleep  well  on  bright  moonlight  nights.  I  was  sitting  at  my 
o])en  bedroom  window.  I  saw  yoH,  sir.  I  even  heard  you.  I 
heard  you  both." 

"You  did?    May  I  ask— " 

'  I  heard  her  ask  you  as  you  stopped  if  it  were  to  be  war  to 
the  knife  between  you,  or  words  to  that  effect  You  answered 
it  should  be  as  Miss  Ilemcastle  pleased.  You  left  her  as  she 
stood,  and  she  watched  you  out  of  sight  almost — by  gad  I  as  il 
you  had  been  her  lover.  And  yet  1  hardly  think  you  ever  were 
that." 

"  Hardly.  I  played  the  lover  once  in  my  life,  and  received 
a  lesson  I  am  not  likely  to  forget  Who  should  know  that  bet> 
ler  than  your  lordship  ?  " 

His  lordship  winced.  ODonnell  calmly  took  up  a  cigai 
ind  lit  it 

"■  I  suppose  I  may  smoke  while  I  listen.  Nothing  clears  a 
lean's  intellect  after  dinner  like  a  prime  Manilla,  Will  your 
lordship  go  on — you  look  as  though  you  may  have  seen  some* 
diing  more." 

"  I  have.  I  saw  Miss  Hero^^stle  steal  from  her  room  tht 
following  night,  waylay  Sir  Pr^r  and  play  ghost.  Come, 
ODonnell,  I  am  possessed  of  %  burning  curiosity  concerning 
Miss  Hemcastle-Htuake  a  clean  breait  if  it — and  tell  me  what 
you  know." 

'*  I  can  teH  you  all  about  the  moonkght  night  you  speak  o( 
tf  that  is  what  you  mean.     I  remained  liUei  than  usual  at  Scar» 


\m 


4;i 


A   CBA^TMM  Of   WONDBMS, 


ill 


wot  d,  and  going  home  I  saw  Kiss  Herncastle  taking  s^  nxooti> 
ligl  .  ramble,  and  presnnung  on  my  previous  introduction,  took 
the  liberty  of  joining  her.  The  moonlight  may  have  affected 
hei  nerver>  as  well  as  your  lordship's ;  midnight  confttitutionab 
may  agree  with  her,  or  she  may  have  been  paying  a  visit — thil 
at  least  is  certain,  our  meeting  was  purely  accidental,  and  never 
occurred  before  nor  since." 

"And  the  mysterious  words  I  heard  under  my  window? 
Keep  your  secret  and  hers,  if  you  will,  but  I  warn  you  fairly  I 
will  find  out  for  myself.  Would  you  like  to  hear  what  I  hav* 
discovered  already  ?  " 

O'Donnell  nodded  in  smoky  silence — more  interested  thaa 
he  cared  to  show.     Had  his  lordship  discovered  the  truth  ? 

"Well,"  LordRuysland  said  "from  the  night  I  saw  her  with 
you,  and  the  night  I  saw  her  play  ghost,  my  mind  was  made  up. 
J  had  distrusted  her  from  the  very  first — now  1  knew  she  was 
a  dangerous  woman.  I  wrote  a  letter  on  the  quiet  to  a  friend 
in  London  ;  my  friend  in  London,  slill  on  the  quiet,  paid  a  visit 
to  Scotland  Vard,  and  sent  down  Davis,  a  dingy  little  man  in 
rusty  black,  with  weak  eyes  and  a  meek  air,  like  a  i)arson  nil 
to  seed.  He  arrived  on  the  ^«ry  day  of  the  grand  denoue- 
ment— the  day  upon  which  Miss  Herncastle  was  expelled  from 
Scarswood.  She  had  no  friends  or  acquaintances  in  Castle- 
ford  ;  she  had  announced  her  intention  of  returning  to  London- 
Davis  and  myself  were  on  the  platform  when  she  appeared — a 
bignal  from  me  told  him  she  was  our  game.  From  that  mo- 
ment she  was  safe;  my  share  in  the  business  was  over.  Slic 
took  a  second-class  ticket  for  London — so  did  Davis.  It  was 
a  Parliamentary,  with  no  end  of  stoppages.  What  do  you  think 
Miss  Herncastle  did  ?  Instead  of  going  to  London  she  got  out 
at  Treverton  Station,  nine  miles  distant,  and  deliberately  walked 
back  in  this  direction  as  far  as  the  town  of  Lewes.  It  was  quite 
(lark  when  she  reached  Lewes,  Davis  still  unseen  on  her  track. 
She  went  to  a  remote  little  inn  in  the  suburbs  of  the  town  called 
'  Th'^  Prince's  Feathers,'  anci  remained  there  all  night.  She 
gave  »o  name,  and  wore  a  thick  green  veil  over  her  face- 
Davii  stopped  at  '  The  Prince's  T<'eathers '  all  night  alsc.  She 
remained  in  her  room  the  whole  of  the  ensuing  day — it  wa« 
nine  o'clock  before  she  ventured  forth ;  and  when  she  did  ven^ 
nre  out,  still  veiled,  where  do  f  ou  think  sh«  went  to  ?  Have 
fou  ever  heard  of  Bracker  Hdk>w  ?  " 

Aflain  O'Donnell  nodded 

"Bracken  Hdlow  is  over  tfure  m^  from  ihiS)  and  fom 


A   CB AFTER    09    ^VoNDERS, 


Aft 


tion,  took 
2  affected 
titutionali 
visit-— thii 
and  nevef 

window? 
ou  fairly  S 
hat  I  have 

ested  thaa 
truth? 
.w  her  with 
5  made  up. 
;w  she  was 
to  a  friend 
paid  a  visit 
ttle  man  in 
parson  ml 
id  denoue- 
pelled  frona 
» in  Castle- 
to  London- 
jpeared — a 
m  that  mo- 
over.     Slic 
ris.     It  was 
o  you  think 
slie  got  out 
tcly  walked 

t  was  quite 
n  her  track, 
town  called 
night.  She 
her  face. 

alsc-.    She 
lay— it  wat 

le  did  vcn^ 

to  ?    Have 


S)  and  foui 


T 


hotu  l.cwjs,  a  tolerable  waSi,  Sl&  poor  Davis  found  to  his  cost 
It  was  a  nasty  drizzly  night,  the  roads  middy,  the  darkness  in 
tense,  but  Miss  Herncastle  went  over  the  way  as  though  she 
knew  every  inch  of  it.  Davis  dogged  her — saw  her  within  the 
gate  of  Blacken  Hollow,  law  her  knock  at  the  doer,  saw  hei 
•  tdnntted  by  an  old  woman,  and  saw  no  more  of  her  that  night. 

"  He  waited  until  daylight,  linder  the  trees,  in  the  drizzlinfl 
ftin ;  but  no  Miss  Herncastle  reappeared.  He  cculd  stand 
.1  no  longer ;  the  fear  of  rheumatism  was  stronger  even  than 
ds  professional  patience.  He  returned  to  Castieford,  ate  his 
breakfast,  changed  his  clotbts  eame  to  me,  and  told  me  his 
9tory.  When  I  tell  you  that  Sracken  Hollow  is  the  residence 
of  the  late  Miss  Katherine  Dangerfield's  nurse — when  you  re- 
call the  striking  resemblance  Miss  Herncastle  bears  to  the  late 
^fiss  Dangeriield — the  coincidence,  you  will  own,  is  at  least 
striking.  The  question,  in  this  statr;  of  things,  naturally  pre- 
fix nts  itself  to  an  inquiring  mind — Did  Miss  Katherine  Danger- 
fcold  really  die  at  all  ?  " 

**  Go  on,"  Captain  O'Donnell  said,  with  an  immovable  face. 

•*  It  is  a  question  that  has  occurred  to  me  many  times.  The 
c^semblance — noticed  by  all  who  ever  saw  the  late  .  ir  John's 
adopted  daughter — the  coincidence  of  age — if  Katherine 
Dangerfield  had  not  died  she  would  be  precisely  Miss  Hern- 
castle's  age  now — and,  lastly,  this  familiarity  with  Blacken  Hol- 
low and  Katherine  Dangerfield's  nurse.  The  grave  is  there  to 
be  sure ;  and  yet —  However,  never  mind  that  at  present.  Davis 
had  a  double  duty  to  perform — to  keep  one  eye  on  Sir  Petef 
while  the  other  was  on  the  ex-governess.  We  had  run  the  ex- 
governess  to  earth ;  we  might  leave  her  safely  at  Bracken 
Hollow  for  the  present,  and  watch  the  baronet's  movements. 
Ft  ^ill  be  a  horrible  thing  for  Ginevra,  this  separation.  A 
iroman  in  thii  case  becomes  totally  extinct  for  life.  I  want  to 
ixrange  matters  amicably  foi  this  time,  ajid  1  fancy  it  will  be  a 
lessen  %at  will  last  her  for  life.  I  had  sent  Frankland  back  to 
tjfwn.  !  had  called  npon  Sir  Peter  at  the  Scarswood  Arms.  I 
Irxind  him  sullen,  and  doggedly  obstinate  beyond  all  descrip- 
tion." 

"  *  I've  no  objection  to  se^Bg  your  lordship  for  once  in  a 
way/  said  this  amiable  nephew-in-la^  of  mine ;  *  but  if  you've 
come  to  talk  of  your  niece,  or  plead  for  her,  I  warn  you  it's  ol 
no  usCi ' 

"  I  ventured  a  mild  remonst»-ance — *  the  natural  levi^  of 
poor  Ginevra's  character — he^    tranity — her  love  of  ballf  m 


<::^, 


T^ 


•♦>* 


A   CUAirriiA   r:Jf  hOIWA^S. 


^^Bm<'  <ll 

^KPI 

P 

9 

i 

M 

PP'^    ^ 

Ifp' 

m'  ''^ 

P;:'    '';^ 

il  :  'fi  1        ^i 

J:'  ^ 

i 

j 

i 

; 

jl  'i  !    Ii  1 

i 

1  t'^ 

1 

f 

1 

^,  :^ 

1 

■■iLyU. 

1 1 

general — the  tlccoiJiion  of  thai  ;;<l4iuuusgovcniCJ.s,*  etc.,  cU.    1\ 
was  all  eloquence  wastrel. 

"  '  vVoniei)  of  thirty-five  should  nave  outgrown  Iheu  natural 
ievitf ,'  returns  my  sulky  baronet ;  *  and  her  vanity  and  love  ol 
pk^asure  have  made  a  fool  of  her  once  too  often.  1  told  hcf 
rot  to  go,  and  she  went ;  I  warned  her  of  the  penally,  and  she 
defied  me.  I  don't  care  a  fig  whether  it  was  Miss  Hemcattle 
cr  Major  Kranklaiid — she  thought  it  was  Frankland,  and  thafs 
enough.  I'll  never  see  lier  again — I'm  blessed  if  I  willl 
I'll  have  a  separation — Ym  blessed  if  I  won't ! '  Only  the 
word  the  no"  le  baronet  used  was  not  '  blessed.'  Upon  that 
(  left  him  and  ^et  Davis  on  the  watch. 

"  He  spent  the  day  alone  ;  when  night  came  he  went  t« 
Dubourg's  gambling  house.  Davis  entered,  too,  keeping  well 
in  the  distance,  his  eye  on  Sir  l*etcr.  He  staked  and  lost, 
staked  and  lost,  again  and  again.  He  played  for  an  hour, 
losing  steadily.  In  a  state  of  «avage  rage  he  was  rising  to  go, 
when  a  waiter  brought  him.-^Cjt^l  with  a  line  or  two  penciled  on 
tlie  reverse  side.  He  lookefl  astounded,  Davis  says,  read  it 
again,  droi:)ped  it,  and  went  forward  to  meet  a  stranger  wlio 
entered.  I'll  show  you  that  card  presently.  Davis  picked  it 
up  unnoticed,  and  I  think  it  will  .'urprise  even  you. 

**  The  new-comer  was  of  L'^i^duun  height,  very  slender,  very 
dark,  with  hair  and  nuistache  oi  that  jetty  black  you  never  see 
in  an  Englishman.  He  was  a  ^3tra^iger  to  Davis,  and  yet  some- 
thing struck  him  as  familiar.  Sir  Peter  put  up  his  double  eye- 
glass and  stared  in  a  helpless  sort  of  way.  '  What  the  devil 
drove  you  back  to  Castleford  ? '  he  heard  Sir  Petei  say  to  him, 
*  I  tliOUght  you  were  dead  and  buried  centuries  ago.  And 
you've  changed,  haven't  you  ?  They  used  to  call  you  good 
looking;  I'll  bj  hanged  if  I  can  sec  it  now.'  The  stranger 
laughed  good-naturedly. 

"  '  Yes>  I  dare  say  1  have  changed,*  he  said,  *  and  not  for  the 
6etter.  Six  years'  knocking  about  aniong  the  sweepings  ol 
Europe,  and  living  by  one's  wits,  is  not  a  life  conducive  to  beauty. 
I'ui  goin^  back  to  AinericA,  and  it  struck  me  I  should  like  to 
run  db^a  here  once  more  and  take  a  look  at  the  old  piace. 
You  look  as  though  you  wondeied  at  that ;  well,  perhaps  it  u 
to  be  wondered  at.  The  truth  ia,'  he  took  bir  Feier  by  the 
button  and  lowered  his  tone,  *  I  heard  something  of  this — thi« 
ghost  story,  you  know,  and  I  had  to  come.  Besides,  I  w&rit  to 
&nd  out  Mn.  Vavasor.  I  say,  Sir  Peter,  can't  we  have  a  piivate 
wou^  a&d  Ulk  the   matter  over?    I  have  a  pocket  full  oi 


A    CMAmUL   fUf    WOifDatUt. 


419 


CtC^  CU.     Ill 

their  natural 
^  and  love  ol 

1  told  hct 
ally,  and  she 
s  Hemcattle 
d,  and  thaf  s 
i  if  I  will! 
'     Only   the 

Upon  that 

he  went  t« 
keeping  well 
:ed  and  lost, 
for  an  hour, 
rising  to  go, 
o  j)enciled  on 
says,  read  it 
stranger  who 
ivis  picked  it 
I. 

slender,  very 
ou  never  see 
,nd  yet  some- 
s  double  eye- 
hat  the  devil 
II  say  to  him, 
s  ago.  And 
,11  you  good 
The  stranger 

id  not  for  the 
sweepings  ol 
ive  to  beauty, 
should  like  to 
ic  oldpbice. 
perhaps  it  u 
Peter  by  the 
of  this — thi« 
!cs,  I  want  to 
lave  a  pnvate 
ocket  full  ol 


^'apoleor.s  here,  and  we  cau  adi%e  in  a  little  game  of  4caiti 
at  the  same  time.' 

"  The  baronet  was  touched  m  his  vital  spot-— 4cart6.  Tacy 
got  the  pnvate  room  and  had  their  little  game.  They  played 
iHitil  long  o^'ter  midnight ,  when  they  came  out,  the  baronet  trai 
ir.  the  wild  state  of  t*lation  he  is  always  in  when  he  wins.  *  2 
JfiiMjght  luck  would  turn,'  he  s.nd  to  Dubourg,  when  he  carat 
out.  *  I've  won  sixty  Naps  of  this  gentleman,  and  mean  to  nin 
*s  many  more  to-morrow  night.  Don't  forget,  Dantree ;  I'll 
^gis^e  you  your  revenge  to-morrow  evening  at  the  Scarswood 
Arms.' " 

*'  Dantree  !  "  O'Donnell  exclaimed. 

"I  see  yor.  remetnber  the  name  -Katherine  Dangerfield's 
rascally  lover.  Here's  the  card  Davrs  picked  up  in  the  gambling 
house." 

O'Donnell  was  fully  aroused  fsc«f  He  flung  his  cigar  away 
ind  took  the  card.  On  one  »id  «ra$  engraved  the  name 
"  Gaston  Dantree,"  on  the  other  w.>-  -^rritten  in  pencil : 

"  Mv  Dear  Sir  Peter  — I  mu^i  see  you  for  a  moment.  I 
have  heard  this  story  of  your  seeing  the  ghost  of  K.  D.  Per- 
haps I  can  throw  some  light  on  the  subject.  G.  D." 

"This  is  extraordinary,"  the  chasseur  said  ;  "  pray  go  on,  my 
lord." 

•'  Ah,  your  interest  is  aroused  at  last.  Wait  until  you  ha^«e 
heard  all.  The  two  men  parted  in  Castleford,  High  street,  and 
Davis  followed  the  wrong  man,  Sir  Peter.  His  professional  in- 
»,tincts  told  him  the  other  was  hi«  ?Ame,  but  his  orders  were  Sir 
l*eter.  The  baronet  remained  wtnm  doors  all  next  day — and 
Davis  strolled  quietly  over  to  Bracken  Hollow,  and  hung  about 
the  trees,  keeping  the  windows  well  in  sight.  He  made  two 
».iiscoveries — first  that  Miss  Herncastle  was  still  there,  second 
tUat  she  and  the  old  woman  have  a  prisoner  of  some  kind  ia 
hiding." 

*' A  piisoner  1 "  O'Donnell  repeated,  thinking  of  what  he  had 
i^dard  at  that  gruesome  housr 

"A  prisoner — an  idict.  Diina  is  certain.  It — he  or  she- 
lie  couldn't  tell  which,  caraiL'  k<;  the  window  twice,  jibberingand 
moaning,  and  uttering  strange,  onemthly  sounds.  Once  th« 
hard  featured  old  woman  pulled  kki  sway,  exclaiming,  'Drat 
die  fool  1  a  body  can't  turn  their  b&£kb?  t  you're  at  the  window.' 
The  second  time  Miss  Herncastle  drew  him  back — speaking 
ver)'  gently  and  kindlv.  He  saw  her  quite  piainly,  the  windon 
iras  up  and  she  ibut  it  down.    As  dusk  drew  on  he  returned  to 


] 


li  !^l: 


48o 


A  CHAPT&R  oi^  iroNDiuts. 


>'H  .- 

h 


l\ 


t;  t 


Castleford  and  his  watch  on  Jie  i^aronei.  Sir  Pclci  was  out— 
had  gone  for  a  walk  — lo  thr  oon^etery  of  all  places  ;  and  Davii 
iUpped  into  his  room.  If  he  could  only  stow  himself  away  and 
see  and  hear  what  went  on  !  There  was  an  old-fashioned  clothes* 
press  at  one  end,  with  a  small  win  iow,  hung  from  within  with  a 
muslin  blind.  He  ran  the  risk  and  took  his  post  in  there.  At 
ten  precisely  Sir  Peter  entered  and  Dantree  with  hira.  Th« 
baronet  sat  with  his  back  to  the  clothes-press,  Dantree  in  plak 
«Tew.  Again  Davis  was  struck  with  the  familiarity  of  the  face, 
br.t  where  had  he  seen  it  ?  He  looked  and  listened,  and  the 
game  went  on.  It  was  ^carte,  and,  before  the  first  quarter  of  an 
hour  was  over,  he  saw  that  the  baronet  did  not  stand  the  ghost 
of  a  chance  against  his  adversary.  Dantree  was  far  and  away 
the  better  player  of  the  two.  And  he  had  sat  down  to  win — his 
losses  last  night  had  been  but  the  usual  nise.  They  played,  and 
from  the  first  game  luck  went  steadily  against  the  baronet.  Ho 
t^rdered  wine  and  brandy,  he  drani  recklessly — his  eagerness 
fcnd  fury  were  something  horr'ble,  Dantree  won  and  won — 
his  dark  face  like  stone,  his  eyes  devilish  in  their  malice  and 
triumph.  Moi  iiing  was  breaking  when  he  arose,  and  he  held  in 
his  hand  Sir  Peter's  check  fr/  eight  thousand  pounds.  They 
had  i)layed  for  high  stakes,  *£<i.  luck  had  gone  dead  against  the 
baronet. 

'* '  rU  win  it  back — by  Hei^ven,  I  will ! '  Sir  Peter  cried, 
nvid  and  trembling  with  fury.  *  Remember,  Dantree,  you're  to 
return  to-night ;  I'll  have  it  back  or  lose  more.' 

"  Dantree  bowed  and  smiled  suavely. 

"  *  I  shalk  only  be  too  happy  to  give  you  your  revenge.  Sir 
Peter.     I  shall  return  without  fail  to-night.' 

"  Sir  Peter  accompanied  him  to  thf  door.  Davis  seized  the 
opiwrtunity  to  slip  from  his  hiding  p).ice,  half  stifled  from  want 
of  air,  and  half  dead  from  want  oi  sleep.  But  before  sleep  of 
rest  was  the  necessity  of  finding  out  something  more  about  thii 
fortunate  Dantree.  He  r^ssolved  to  follow  him  home,  and  ha 
did  It.  In  tlie  gray  of  tbt^  ^imimer  morning  he  dogged  Daa> 
tree  lo  his  abode.  It  w«s-^iscf*!  is  another  as^on'fher  for  you — 
Bracken  Hollow."  \ 

The  chasseur  could  only  sit  and  stare  "  Bracken  Hollow  ?  *• 
be  murmured,  helplessly. 

"  Bracken  Hollow.  And  as  he  watched  him  enter,  the  whoU 
trutli  burst  upon  him — the  familiarity  of  his  face,  his  walk—" 
wc-e  explained.  Gaston  Dantree  and  Helen  Hemcastle  wa< 
one  and  the  same." 


i:i  i 


CI  was  oul-^ 
s ;  and  Davk 
lelf  away  and 
oned  clothes. 
within  with  a 
n  there.  At 
1  him.  The 
[itree  in  pUic 
^  of  the  face, 
;ned,  and  the 
quarter  of  an 
ind  the  ghost 
far  and  away 
n  to  win — his 
y  played,  and 
baronet.  He 
his  eagerness 
n  and  won — 
ir  malice  and 
ind  he  held  in 
)unds.  They 
id  against  the 

Peter  cried, 
ree,  you're  to 


•  revenge,  Sir 

via  seized  the 
id  from  want 
fore  sleep  of 
)re  about  thia 
lonie,  and  ha 
dogged  Daa* 
her  for  you— 


!n  HoUow  ? 


\ 


ter,  thewhoU 
e,  his  walk— 
ncastle  wev< 


A   CMA^TEM  OF  WONDRJtS. 


4Bt 


ODonnell  fairly  rose  froM  his  chair  in  th«  intensity  o#  Ui 
surprise. 

"  Impossible  1 "  he  exclaimed.  '*  My  lord,  what  is  it  yim  are 
laying  ?     Oh,  this  is  too  much  I  " 

"It  is  the  truth — I  am  convinced  of  it.  That  woman  it 
capable  of  anything — anything  under  Heaven .  She  personated 
Frankland  at  the  ball,  she  personates  Gaston  Danlree  now. 
Gsiston  Dantree  in  propria  persona  it  couldn't  be — that  I 
know." 

"  You  know — how  ?  " 

"  When  I  got  that  card,  and  heard  Davis'  description  of  him, 
I  went  to  Dr.  Graves,  of  Castleford.  He  knew  him,  you  re- 
member ;  and  asked  him  for  information.  The  description  he 
gave  me  of  Dantree  in  no  way  agreed  with  Davis'  description, 
except  in  the  :olor  of  the  hair  and  mustache.  I  asked  Graves 
if  Dantree  ever  recovered  from  his  fall  downstairs.  The  doctor 
shook  his  head.  I  have  asked  Otis,  and  he  says  yes,  but  I 
don't  believe  it.  He  couldn't  reoc^TS?.  Alive  he  may  be — but 
if  alive  he  is  an  idiot.  It  was  impossible,  from  the  nature  of 
the  injury  he  received,  that  health  and  reason  could  both  re- 
turn." 

O'Donnell  sat  mute,  his  head  in  a  whirl. 

"  Davis  came  to  me,  made  his  report,  returned  to  the  SUvei 
Rose,  and  slept  all  day.  Sir  Peter  kept  his  bed  all  day — I 
visited  the  Scarswood  Arms  and  found  that  out.  Then  I  took 
A  stroll  in  the  direction  of  Bracken  Hollow,  [t  is  the  loneliest 
of  all  lonely  places — no  one  ever  goes  there.  The  thick  growth 
of  trees  renders  it  a  capital  spot  for  a  spy.  Safely  out  of  sight 
myself,  I  watched  thai  upper  window.  I  had  my  reward — the 
jibbering,  idiotic  face  appearedy  laughing,  mouthing,  and  talk- 
mg  to  itself.  I  had  brought  with  me  a  jjowerful  pocket  telescope, 
Uil  took  a  long  look  before  any  one  came.  O'Donnell,  here 
b  the  crowning  discovery  of  the  whole — I  believe  that  idiot 
tidden  at  Bracken  Hollow  to  be  Gaston  Dantree  !  " 

'*  Gracious  Heaven  ! " 

'*  Graves  had  described  dfe?:  ffcce,  remember,  and  I  had  a  good 
iouk.  The  description  taUfe^-l  V  was  a  handsome  face— or 
iiad  been  when  the  light  of  re^s^tti  was  there ;  black  eyes,  black 
hair — regular  features,  and  shst'e??  smooth.  The  idea  would 
not  have  struck  me  had  Grave*  not  mentioned  that  Dantree,  if 
%l'v*»^  must  be  an  idiot.  The  question  is,  what  brings  him 
4^^re?" 

"  A    question    1   cannot  answer.     I    ,*m   titterly  dazed  and 


ml 


4^ 


J   CMAI^TBM  OF   WOAfDBMS, 


% 


Si  ■;■ 


'^  % 


h   . 


stunned.  I  never  hea.^  sttua  la  extraordinary  chain  of  occa» 
rences  in  a.1  my  life.  To  think  that  Miss  Herncastle  ahouU 
personate  Gaston  Dantree.  My  lord,  it  stems  it  must  be 
ply  preposterous.  Why,  Sir  Peter  knew  Uantree — would 
the  imposture  at  once." 

'*  Sir  Peter  would  see  nothing  of  the  kind — Sir  Peter  if  at 
blind  as  a  bat,  can't  see  two  inches  beyond  his  own  nose.  Ht 
takes  Gaston  Dantree  for  granted.  Davis  is  right,  you'll  find 
Was  there  ever  such  another  woman  in  the  world  ?  " 

'*  Never,  I  hope.  And  it  is  really  your  impression  that  Gas* 
ton  Dantree,  an  idiot,  is  imprisoned  at  Bracken  Hollow?" 

"  It  is  resdly  my  impression,  and  I  can  only  account  for  it  in 
this  way  :  Katherine  Dan^erfield  left  him  in  charge  of  fhis  Mr. 
Otis — from  what  I  hear  I  infer  Otis  was  in  love  with  Katherine 
Dangerfield,  and  her  wishes  "^ere  sacred.  He  restored  Dan- 
tree to  health  but  not  to  reason,  and  placed  him  with  the  girl's 
nurse  in  this  desolate  house.  That  is  my  theory,  and  it  will 
bold  good  in  the  end,  you'll  find." 

"  If  you  saw  a  portrait  of  this  Gaston  Dantree,"  O'Donnell 
said,  thoughtfully,  **  yon  coi^.ld  tell,  I  suppose,  whether  or  no  it 
was  the  same  face  you  saw  {^v  Bracken  Hollow  ?  " 

"  I  am  certain  I  could  dat  is  it  probable  we  can  procure 
such  a  portrait  ?  " 

''  It  is  possible  I  think.  Pray  go  on  and  let  me  hear  all. 
Did  Gaston  Dantree  or  Helen  Herncastle  return  to  the  Scars- 
wood  Arms  that  night  ?  " 

"That  night  was  last  night,  and  the  soi-disant  Dantree 
returned  Just  before  nightfall  Davis  resumed  his  post  under 
the  fir-trees  to  watch  and  wait.  He  was  close  to  the  house  and 
kept  his  eye  well  on  the  windows.  He  saw  nothing,  but  he 
heard  as  unearthly  and  blood-curdling  a  cry  as  ever  came  from 
maniac  lips.  If  the  house  were  not  so  utterly  isolated  and 
reputed  to  be  haunted  (from  those  very  cries),  the  keeping  of 
this  imbecile  there,  unknown,  could  never  have  gone  on  thif 
long.  It  was  a  hazy,  mugp  «ort  of  day,  sultry  and  sunless, 
tnd  at  half-past  eight  was  quit&  i!ark.  There  was  neither  moon 
fior  stars.  Taking  advantage  of  the  ^looin  mjr  detective  actu- 
ally entered  the  stone  porch  and  exammed  the  fastenings  of  the 
door.  He  found  them,  as  he  suspected,  old  *nd  frail — in  ten 
Hjinutes  at  any  time  he  could  effect  an  entrance.  No  doubt 
the  windows  were  the  same,  but  before  he  co^d  test  the  win- 
d<>ws  he  h^ard  h^lts  undrawn  and  voices  from  within.  He  had 
|«'it  time  to  dart  l>ehir*d  the  ix^rdi  wb«n  Mi^-s  ^l^ntcastie  mnuis 


• 


sun  of  ocauk 
castle  shooU 
must  be 
; — would 


Peter  if  ai 
n  nose.  Ht 
t,  you'll  find 

ion  that  Gas* 
oUow?" 
ount  for  it  in 
^e  of  this  Mr. 
ith  Katherine 
stored  Dan- 
irith  the  girl's 
jt  and  it  will 

,"  O'Donnell 
:ther  or  no  it 

'.  can  procure 

me  hear  all. 
to  the  Scars- 
fin/  Dantree 
is  post  under 
le  house  and 
hing,  but  he 
;r  came  from 
isolated  and 
e  keeping  of 
gone  on  thir 
and  sunless, 
leither  moos 
itective  actu- 
enings  of  the 
frail — in  ten 
No  doubt 
test  the  win- 
lin.  He  had 
recast  ><  mads 


^    CffAfrJiJf   QF   WONDERS. 


^l 


her  j){))«arancc — Miss  Her»«  -jtlc,  tn  ^arf^n,  and  a  very  flash 
bg  young  fellow  she  make&,  >-'')avis  tells  me,  black  mustache 
black  evening  suit,  slouched  *fidr  awake  hat,  and  a  wig  of  curly 
black  hair.  Davis  has  the  eye  of  a  hawk — he  knew  hei 
instanter.  A  tall,  hard-featured  old  woman  followed  ;  old  Han- 
nah, no  doubt,  once  Katherine  Dangerfield's  nurse. 

'' '  If  8  a  daring  game — a  dangerous  game,  my  child,'  ke 
heard  the  old  woman  say  in  an  anxious  tone.  '  You'll  play  A 
once  too  often  I  greatly  fear.  Let  Sir  Peter  once  sus{)ect,  sod 
you're  caught  Hke  a  mouse  in  a  trap.  He  has  the  cunning  of 
Satan.     I  know  that  of  old." 

"  *  We  both  know  it,  don't  we,  Hannah  ? '  he  heard  Miss 
H'^r;^ astle  say — (there's  no  mistaking  his  description  of  her 
soit,  slo  V,  sweet  tones ;  the  one  thing  it  appears  she  cannot 
change),  'and  to  our  cost.  Let  us  see  if  my  cunning  cannot 
overmatch  his  now.  It's  a  long  lane  tliat  has  no  turning.  I 
think  tne  turning  for  the  most  noble  baronet  of  Scarswood  has 
come,  and  he  shall  find  it  oc-  shortly  to  his  cost.  Do  you  know 
the  vow  I  vowed  that  last  ni^^it  long  ago  when  he  insulted  r.ie? 
*♦  Living,"  I  said,  "1  will  pursue  you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth 
— {/Mdf  1  will  come  from  the  grave  to  torment  you."  Hannah, 
I  have  kept  that  vow.  I  .ijsjfw  ccme  from  the  grave — from  the 
very  jaws  of  death ;  to  tcnr^^i:  him.  I  have  separated  him  from 
his  wife — I  have  frightened  him  with  ghost-seeing  until  his  own 
shadow  on  the  wall  makes  him  tremble  and  tuni  pale,  and  last, 
but  not  least — I  take  his  money.  Six  thousand  in  one  night  is 
a  very  respectable  haul.  Hannah — let  us  see  if  we  cannot  make 
it  six  more  to-night.  He  doesn't  know  what  a  severe  appren- 
ticeship I  have  passed  to  all  grades  of  skill  for  his  benefit.  H^ 
is  paying  me  back  the  three  thousand  he  once  refused,  with  intei 
est,  is  he  not  ?  Good-night,  Hannah,  don't  fear  foi  me.  Aftei 
to-night  Sir  Peter  shall  have  breathing  space.  Try  and  keep 
our  poor  patient  quiet ;  this  seems  one  of  his  noisy  nighta. 
And  don't  sit  up  for  me — there's  a  good  soul.  I  won't  be  hottt^ 
ontil  daylight' 

*' A  very  remarkable  and  mysterious  speech,  is  it  not,  O'Dod- 
Aell  ?  It  struck  Davis  in  thst  light,  and  he  recollected  every 
word  of  it,  but  then  Davis  hfts  s^^  Tmcommonly  tenacious  memory. 
What  do  you  suppose  she  ^"i^d  have  meant  now  by  coming 
from  the  grave,  and  vowin|(  -'©ws,  and  all  that  meloiJrama  > 
Did  Katherine  Dangerfield  no:  die  after  all  ?  Was  thai  deatk 
ind  burial  only  sham  ;  and  is  Miss  Hemcastle  Katheriitr.  Dan^ 
ger^d  alive  in  flesh  ?  " 


M 


k 


:    i 


m 


Ml 


I 


1 ' 


4M 


A    CMAFTRK      ;V*    WONDEMS, 


His  lordihip  looked  keenly  kcit<bM  the  table  at  hu 
lull  the  chasseur  sat  like  the  r.^vble  Agamemnon  behind  Um, 
\\tt  (ace  locked  in  as  stony  caln4. 

*  Go  en,"  was  his  grim  response. 

*'  Davis  followed,  as  in  duty  bound,  and  saw  the  penonatov 
•I  \?r.  Dantree  safe  within  the  baronet's  apartments.  He  ho¥ 
errd  about  the  paftsage — airing  his  eye  and  ear  at  the  keyho>« 
frh«'n  opportunity  presented.  They  played  the  live-long  nighfd 
'^•the  baronet  more  desperately,  more  recklessly  than  cy^r, 
more  like  a  madman,  indeed,  thaii  a  sane  gambler.  He  drank 
brandy  at  a  perfectly  furious  rate — he  doubled  and  redoubled 
the  stakes  and  still  he  lost — ^lost.  He  seemed  to  go  mad  at 
last ;  an  immense  heap  of  gold  and  bank-notes  changed  hands. 
Davis  calculates  that  he  must  have  lost  enormously — thousands. 
He  sprang  up  at  last  as  day  was  dawning,  ^nth  a  perfect  shriek 
of  rage  and  frenzy,  accused  Dantree  of  foul  play,  of  being 
In  league  with  the  devil  to  rob  him  Dantree  laughed  in  hit 
face,  and  swept  the  gold  and  notes  into  his  pockets,  filling  theo 
all. 

"  •  I'll  take  your  check  for  the  remainder,  Sir  Peter  Danger, 
field,'  he  said,  coolly ;  '  eighteen  hundred  pounds  exactly.' 

"  The  words  seemed  to  goad  the  little  baronet  to  madness ; 
he  sprang  upon  Dantree  and  seized  him  by  the  throat  (I  sajf 
Dantree,  you  understand,  for  convenience).  The  next  instant 
there  was  a  sharp  click,  and  through  the  keyhole  Davis  saw  the 
cold  muzzle  of  a  pistol  held  within  an  inch  of  the  baronet's  head. 

"  *  You  coward — you  bully — you  fool ! '  he  heaid  Dantree  say 
between  his  clenched  teeth.  *  Stand  off,  or,  by  the  Lord  that 
made  me,  I'll  shoot  you.     Write  out  the  check,  or — * 

"  He  did  not  need  to  say  more.     The  baronet  turned  of  a 
greenish  white,  and  fell  back  with  a  yelp  of  terror.     He  wrote 
the  r,heck,  his  hand  shaking  so  that  he  could  hardly  hold  th? 
pen,  and  passed  it  nith  a  white  face  of  abject  fear  to  ti: 
j>th<:r.     Dantree  pocketed  it  and  the  pistol. 

"'I  shall  cash  these  checkis  9^  Castleford  Bank  to-day,'  were 
bki  partmg  words,  '  and  I  thaQ  carry  my  pistol.  Don't  let  me 
•ec  you  anywhere  in  the  visible  horizon.  Shall  we  cry  quits 
this  morning,  or  shall  I  return  to-night  and  give  you  a  secontf 
ra'enge  f '  He  laughed  insolently  in  Sir  Peter's  face.  *  Ah,  1 
■ce.  You've  l\ad  enough.  Well,  good  morning  to  you,  ^ 
Peter.  My  advice  is  like  Lady  Macbeth's  :  "  To  bed  !  to  bed ! ' 
You  readly  haven't  the  nerve,  you  know,  for  this  sort  of  thing. 
A^  I've  heard  them  say  out  in  New  York  *  "  Von  can't  frarobla 


A   LJiAPTMM  OF  WONDMJU, 


4lf 


ehindhim^ 


penonatoc 
Hchov 
he  kcyhoVa 
•long  nigtei 
than  ever. 
He  drank 
1  redoubled 
}  go  mad  at 
iged  hands, 
-thousandi. 
;rfect  shriek 
y,  of  being 
iighed  in  hit 
ailing  them 

jter  Danger- 
xactly.' 
:o  madneM ; 
hroat  (I  saj 
next  instant 
lavis  saw  the 
onet's  headl 
iDantree  saf 
le  Lord  that 

turned  of  a 
He  wrote 
|dly  hold  tb^ 
fear  to  ti; 

p-day,'  were 
)on*t  let  rac 
re  cry  quiti 

|ou  a  second 

Ice.  *Ah,l 
to  you,  Sii 
!  tobedf 
}rtof  thins. 

[•An't  gambk 


worth  a  ecfxt*'    Once  more^flMMt  noble  liord  9f  Sc«rsw^o(i 
adieu  I ' 

"Davis  followed  Mr.  Dantree  back,  and  saw  hun  safely 
housed  at  Bracken  Hollow.  Then  he  returned— to  report  t« 
me  and  take  his  necessarv  sleep.  Oflf  and  on  I  have  been  oi 
the  watch  myself  to-<lay,  but  have  discovered  nothing.  I  alat 
called  upon  Sir  Peter  this  afternoon,  and  found  him  in  bed — 
his  complexion  yellower  than  I  ever  saw  it,  his  wizen  fac« 
more  wizen — a  picture  of  abject  misery  and  deepair.  He  was 
only  too  glad  to  pour  his  piteous  tal*!^  into  any  symi>athetic  ear. 
He  had  lost  in  two  nights  thirteen  thousand  pounds.  Enor 
rnous  stakes,  surely.  I  got  the  story  of  the  pistol,  of  Dantree's 
threatening  language,  of  his  convirtion  of  foul  play.  Personal 
fear  of  that  pistol  alone  prevents  ms  giving  the  case  into  the 
hands  of  the  police,  and  having  Dantree  arrested  for  carrying 
deadly  wea[/ons  and  threatening  his  life.  Of  his  wife  or  the 
separation  he  declined  to  speak — that  is  a  minor  matter  com- 
pared to  the  loss  of  his  money.  Now,  my  idea  is,  to  find 
Miss  Hemcastle,  prove  m/  knowledge  of  her  infamous  con- 
duct— threaten  her  with  the  law,  and  make  her  refund  all,  or 
part,  of  her  ill-gotten  gain.  Then  I  shall  make  its  restoration 
and  her  exposure  the  price  of  Sir  Peter's  peace  with  his  wife. 
I  see  no  other  way  at  present  to  patch  up  matters  between 
him  and  Ginevra." 

"And  that  will  fail,"  CDonnell  said,  decisively.  "Yoo 
mistake  both  Miss  Hemcastle  and  Sir  Peter  if  you  fancy  you 
can  intimidate  the  one,  or  trust  the  other.  She  will  laugh  in 
your  face  as  she  did  in  his,  and  defy  you,  and  he  will  promise 
whatever  you  desire,  and  break  the  promise,  the  instant  the 
money  is  restored.     Thai  way  is  hopeless,  believe  me." 

"Then  what  is  to  be  done?  Let  this  nefarious  plot  go  on 
— let  her  escape  with  her  spoils — let  this  idiot  remain  shut  up 
there — terrifying  all  who  hea:  him?  O'Donnell,  you  know 
more  of  this  extraordinary  woman  than  you  choose  to  tell ;  in 
the  face  of  all  this,  can  you  still  be  silent  ?  It  is  the  duty  o< 
every  man  to  hunt  such  a  woman  as  that  down." 

"  And  yet  to  hunt  any  woman  down  sc;d.r.?  har^Dv  a  credit- 
able or  manly  thing.  And  r.\x  Peter  Dangerfield  and  Gastot 
Dantree  may  have  rightly  c«y«ied  all  that  has  befallen  them.  1 
believe  all  you  have  told  cs';  ;f  Miss  Hemcastle,  and  yet  with 
out  being  particularly  maRd[!!in  «r  soft  hearted,  I  don't  feel  dii 
posed  to  sit  in  judgment  npon  her  Wait,  my  loid,  sjivc  mi 
tinv"  to  thiT\k       O^f's  h^'><\  wVirV.  mft'-T  nV   'V 


i 


% 


.'■% 


'■m 


Iff  i , 

lilt 


m  !pf"  jif 


|i 


M' 


416 


4   CHAFTBR  OF    WONDERS, 


"What  is  that  you  said  about  iic  bon^-fid-r  Danriee*!  •{€! 
ore  ?  1  would  like  to  tee  it  if  you  can  procure  it.  Who  has  it  ?  " 

**  I  don't  know  that  any  one  has  it,  but  I  fancy  my  liitci 
nay?" 

"Your  sister  I" 

**  Yes — Rose.  Your  lordship  will  recollect  she's  from  New 
Orleans,  and  I  am  aware  she  knows  tnis  Dantree.  She  di^ 
Qot  speak  of  it — it  was  not  necessary  ;  and  his  acquaintance, 
as  he  turned  out  here,  was  hardly  a  thing  to  boast  oL  It 
still  wants  a  few  minutes  of  eleven, '  he  pulled  out  his  watch 
"She  may  not  have  retired  I'll  runup  to  her  room,  if  you 
like,  and  ascertain." 

Lord  Ruysland  signified  his  wish,  and  the  chasseur  ran, 
three  sieps  at  a  time,  up  the  broad,  low  stairs.  He  tapped  at 
his  sister's  door. 

"  It  is  I,  Rose,"  he  said.    "  If  you  are  up,  let  me  in." 

The  door  opened  immediately — Rose,  in  a  white  dressing- 
gown,  brushing  out  her  long,  dark  hair,  stood  before  him. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  forgot  to  ask  you,  when  I  promised  to  hunt  up  this 
fellow  Dantree,  if  >  ou  had  an>  portrait  of  him.  Of  cours*  »♦ 
is  necessary  to  know  what  he  is  like,  and  no  description  is 
equal  to  a  likeness.     Have  you  one  ?  " 

She  bent  her  head  and  moved  away  to  her  writirg  case. 
Out  of  one  of  tlie  drawers  she  procured  a  card  picture 
wrapped  in  silver  paper.     She  placed  it  in  her  brother's  hand 

"  It  is — it  was  a  most  excellent  likeness.  Any  one  who 
ever  saw  him  once  would  recognize  it.  Redmond,  have  you 
heard  -is  there  any  news  of-—"     Her  voice  died  away. 

**  I  will  *W  you  in  a  day  or  two.  I  have  reason  to  think  he 
IS  not  dead.  As  yet  of  coarse  I  know  nothing  positively.  In 
any  ca^^ you  aie  safe  from  him,  Rose." 

He  was  looking  at  the  picture  as  he  spoke.  A  photogiajf^ 
^.jflly  tinted — finely  executed.  In  all  its  brilliant  btautk  d% 
diable  the  fatal  face  that  had  wrecked  the  lives  of  Marie  De 
I  ansae  and  Katherine  Dangerfield  looked  up  at  him  from  the 
card — the  pictured  eyes  alight — the  square-cut,  perfect  inoutht 
half-smiling — faultless  almost  as  the  face  of  the  Apollo.  As  he 
looked,  O'Donnell  for  the  first  time  cou'd  understand  and 
almost  forgive  his  sister's  folly. 

"  A  rarely  perfect  face,"  he  thought,  *'  a  taoe  to  make  a  fool 
?f  any  woman.  And  to  think  the  end  of  all  his  briuiance,  aU 
•5s  beauty,  should  be — Bracken  FTollow." 


TME.  LAST  UHK. 


417 


mcy  my  ilitei 


he*  8  from  New 

tree.     She  d^ 

acquaintance, 

boast  oL     It 

out  his  watch 

er  room,  if  yon 

chaiteur  ran, 
He  tapped  at 

me  in." 

white  dre«sing- 
efore  him. 

;o  hunt  up  this 
Of  course  »♦ 
description  is 

er  writir.gcase. 

a  card  picture 

brother's  hand 

Any  one  who 
nond,  have  you 
:d  away, 
ison  to  think  he 

positively.     I» 

A  photogiapl 
lliant  heauth  d% 
es  of  Marie  De 
at  him  from  the 
,  perfect  mouthi 
Apollo.  As  he 
understand   and 

to  make  a  fool 
lis  bri*.liaw:c,  a" 


He  left  his  sister,  rejoined  the  earl  now  paciag  to  and  frw 
die  library.  In  the  past  twenty  years  of  his  life  I^rd  Ruys 
land  h»i  never  been  fully  aroused  from  his  supinene^s  before — 
never  '.'ntered  heari  and  soul  into  an)  thing  as  ho  was  enteriag 
iilto  the  hunting  down  of  this  >oung  woman.  He  paused  ^ts3 
Ujoked  at  the  vignette. 

*'  it  is  as  I  fancied,"  ODonnell  said.  "  Rose  has  his  picl- 
9tt.  No  doubt  he  favored  all  the  young  ladies  of  his  acquaint^ 
ince  with  his  handsome  face.  Here — look  and  tell  me  if  his 
is  the  face  you  saw  ?  " 

Under  his  outward  carelessness  his  pulses  were  throbbing 
with  feverish  fear.  He  handed  the  earl  the  picture.  The 
next  instant  he  was  aroused  as  the  earl  uttered  a  cry  of  recog- 
nition. 

"  I  knew  I  was  right  \ "  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  suppressed  in- 
tensity. "  This  is  the  face  I  saw  at  the  window — the  face  of 
old  Hannah's  visitor — ^younger,  handsomer,  but  the  same. 
This  picture  makes  th*t  m«ch  clear,  at  least — Gaston  Dantree 
is  the  idiot  of  Brack«!A  HolWw.'' 


CHAFTER  XXV. 


TU    LAST  LnrK. 


I  HE  late  F^vliamentar)  train  rushing  faito  the  Caatle. 
ford  s*.7tv>n  some  time  after  nine  on  the  evening  ol 
this  s^n^ie  eighth  of  August,  brought  among  its  passen 
gers  a  httle  woman,  dressed  in  black  silk,  wearing  a 
Paisley  shawl  and  a  close  black  veil.  The  black  silk  was 
shabby,  the  Paisley  shawl  bore  marks  of  age  and  wear,  the 
little  stiaw  V>nnet  was  last  season's  shape,  and  two  words 
MC'irately  describe  the  little  woman  tripping  along  the  station 
— shabby  jfenteel.  She  entered  the  ladies'  waiting-room,  hei 
veil  still  over  her  face,  leaving  no  feature  discernible  save  the 
hai  d,  bright  glitter  of  the  black  eyes.  She  glanced  around  with 
t  half-eagez,  half-frightened  air,  but  no  creature  was  visible  miv^ 
herseK, 

*'I  drought — I  thought  he  might  be  here,"  she  said,  t 
whisper  under  her  vefl.     "J  fee*  afraid  to-night — I  don*t  l.  .->. 


4M 


THE   LAST   LINK. 


m 


oi  what—  I  have  had  the  feeling  since  I  got  the  letter  fini 
What  if  it  should  be  a  trap — and  yet  ho^  can  it  ?  Who  knowt 
— who  would  take  the  trouble  ?     If  1  only  dare  inquiic." 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  irresolute,  went  forward, 
came  back,  stood  still  again,  undecided. 

"  I  don't  know  what  ails  me  to-night,"  she  muttered  "  I  fer' 
as  though  I  were  going  to  die  or — or  something  terrible  abon 
to  happen.  Is  it  a  presentiment?  Lord  Ruysland  is  here— 
iAe  is  here.  My  little  one — mim — the  only  creature  on  eaill 
that  belongs  to  me.  If  I  could  only  see  her — if  I  thought 
Lionel  meant  what  he  says.  It  seems  far  too  good  to  be  true- 
it  is  like  a  dream." 

She  drew  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress  a  letter,  and  looked 
at  the  envelope  and  superscription.  it  was  postmarked 
Castleford  and  addressed : 


Mum.  llAuatT  Vavasok, 

Rub  db ,  Pabis. 

in  a  large,  masculine  hand.     She  opened  it,  and  read  for  the 
hundredth  time  its  contents  : 


!'    'H;';i 


I 


!l 


**  HAaaiKT: — I  Am  in  EngUnd  once  more,  in  Castleford,  on  a  visit  ta 
Lord  Ruysland.  My  wife  is  dead  oat  in  Quebec  After  infinite  trouble  I 
have  discovered  your  address.  Harriet,  I  know  all — the  miserable  story 
of  my  dead  sister's  plotting  that  separated  us  four-and-twenty  years  ago. 
If  the  memory  of  that  time  has  nut  wholly  died,  if  you  are  firee  as  I  am, 
come  to  Castleford  and  meet  me.  I  enclosed  %  bilUt  de  banqut  in  case  yuu 
sliould  need  it.  Do  not  ask  for  me — let  no  one  suspect  or  frustrate  us  this 
time.  We  will  meet  in  secret.  On  the  night  of  the  eighth  of  August,  at 
ten  o'clock,  I  will  be  in  waiting  near  the  gate  of  the  house  known  as  Bracken 
Hollow.  You  know  it,  beyond  doubt.  When  we  meet  I  will  explain  every- 
thing— the  cause  of  this  secrecy,  why  I  have  selected  that  particular  spot, 
bow  I  discovered  your  identity  with  the  Mrs,  Vavasor,  who  six  years  ago 
visited  Sir  John  Dangerfield.  Only  come.  I  long  for  you  as  ardently  af 
I  did  four-and-tweaty  years  ago.  Yoa  would  not  have  failed  me  thtn  ;  de 
a*t  fail  now. 

"LlONBL  CaBDANELU'* 


risf : 


She  read  this  singular  epistle  over  word  for  word,  then  folded 
and  replaced  it  in  her  dress. 

'*  If  I  only  da-^e  ask,"  she  muttered  again.  "  But  if  I  obey 
him  in  one  thing  I  obey  him  in  all  And  it  must  be  all  right 
Who  is  there  alive  that  knows — who  would  take  the  trouble  to 
^lude  me  ?  To  think — to  think,  after  all  these  years,  I  shaU 
'tand  iace  to  face  with  hiin  ag.iin.  His  wife  dead — he  free. 
*  nd  I  — if  he  ihoald  diiTover  the  hideous  story  ii  the  past,  m^ 


letter  firai 
Who  knowt 


ft 


quiie. 

vent  forward. 

red  "Ifef 
errible  abon 
md  is  here— 
ture  on  caiO 
-if  I  though! 
d  to  be  true— 

r,  and  looked 
poitmarked 


d  read  for  the 


prd,  on  *  visit  t« 
infinite  trouble  1 

miserable  story 
irenty  yean  ago. 
are  free  as  I  am, 
nqu€  ii»  case  you 
•  frustrate  us  this 
ith  of  August,  at 
nown  as  Bracken 
irill  explain  every- 

particular  spot, 
krho  six  years  ago 
ou  as  ardently  ai 
iled  me  thtn  ;  d© 

Caedankll.'* 

rd,  then  folded 

But  if  I  obey 

ist  be  all  right 

the  trouble  to 

years,  I  shall 

dead — he  free. 

)f  the  past,  m3 


TffF   iJiST   J.INtC 


m 


'/9JIIK  -~aM  my  crime — all  my  wrong-doing,  the  story  of  my  life 
revenge." 

The  station  clock  struck  sharply  the  quarter  past  nine.  It 
aroused  her ;  there  was  no  time  to  spare.  She  walked  reee- 
lutely  out  of  the  waiting-room — a  dy  stood  near.  She  beckonci 
to  the  driver  to  approach. 

"  You  know  Bracken  Hollow  ?  " 

*'  Surely,  ma'am,"  looking  suspiciously  at  the  veiled  bcc , 
^'A  main  and  lonesome  place  it  be." 

"  I  want  to  go  there — at  least  to  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
or  so.     I  will  pay  you  now  ;  how  much  ?  " 

The  flyman  named  his  price.  She  counted  it  into  his  palm, 
and  took  her  seat.  In  a  momenl  they  were  rattling  thiougii 
Castleford  High  street  on  their  way.  She  looked  about  her ; 
how  familiar  it  all  was  ;  the  shops  she  knew  so  well — the  Silver 
Rose  where  she  had  stopped,  the  cottage  of  Henry  Otis,  and 
(she  shuddered  as  she  looked  at  it)  the  lonely  churchyaid  with 
its  lonely  grave.  Poor  Katherine  Dangerfield  !  And  Gaston 
Dantree — what  had  become  of  him  t " 

"  It's  a  story  I  hate  to  think  of."  she  thought.  "  That  dead 
girl's  face  rises  before  me  nights  when  I  can't  sleep — white  and 
still  as  I  saw  her  in  her  wedding-dress.  And  Gaston  Dantree 
— I  see  Aim  in  my  dreams  as  I  saw  him  that  night,  all  bruised 
ind  bleeding  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  All  dead,  and  through 
mf.  I  wish  I  had  been  satisfied  with  my  first  revenge — wher 
I  gave  the  earl  the  wrong  child.  I  wish  I  had  let  Katherint 
marry  Dantree  and  live.  It's  a  horrible  thing  to  have  a  dead 
face  haunt  one's  dreams." 

They  left  the  town  behind  and  took  the  quiet  lane  leading  to 
Bracken  Hollow.  The  night  was  close — dark,  moonless,  star 
less ;  the  trees  loomed  up  black  on  every  hand  ;  no  living  thing 
was  to  be  seen.  That  chill  feeling  of  vague  fear  increased — il 
was  all  so  strange,  so  unreal.  Why  had  he  come  back  ?  Why 
had  he  chosen  Ais  desolate  spot  ?  What  was  to  come  of  it  all  ? 
She  shivered  in  the  still  warmth  of  the  night  a.id  wrapped  hci 
shawl  closer  around  her.     The  driver  suddenly  stopped. 

"Bracken  Hollow  be  yonder,"  he  said,  pointing  with  his 
whip.  "  Keep  straight  on — there's  no  mistaking  it ;  it's  not 
twenty  yards  from  this." 

He  helped  her  to  descend,  then  remounted,  turned  his  horse^ 
and  went  jolting  back  toward  the  town. 

She  stood  in  the  darkness  in  the  middle  of  the  lane,  whett 
he  had  left  her,  feeling  as  lost  as  a  shipwrecked  sailor  on  9 


;i 


'I 

f  1 


49^ 


Tin  LAST  rjhftc 


\ 


■iM 


■itillj! 


if 


detert  iiland.  She  itood  watching  him  actil  the  lair  mmum)  ^ 
the  wheels  died  away.  Then  the  reluctantly  turned  and  kiolloii 
before  her. 

Darkneu  everywhere — black  treei — blacker  sky— dead 
silence.     She  walked  slowly  on. 

The  gate  of  Bracken  Hollow.  Why,  she  murmured  again-— 
why,  of  all  the  lonesome  places  on  esurth,  had  he  chosen  this  T 

"It  looks  like  the  place  for  a  murder/'  she  thought,  glancing 
jearfiilly  around.  "  If  some  one  should  start  out  from  thet* 
irees — some  gypsy — or  poacher— or — " 

A  cry  broke  from  her  ;  she  started  back.  A  tall  figure  hmd 
stepped  out  from  under  the  black  trees. 

"  Harriet^*  a  voice  said,  *'  is  it  yoa  ?  ** 

'' Lionel  V* 

**  Lionel  Cardanell — yes.  Then  you  ^Vf  come !  I  feared 
you  would  not ;  you  sent  no  answer.  And  after  all  those  years, 
Harriet,  we  stand  face  to  (ace  again  ?  " 

Face  to  (ace,  perhaps,  but,  in  the  deep  darkness,  the  face  o( 
neither  to  be  seen.  Her  heart  was  bea  ing  so  fast  that  it 
seemed  to  suffocate  her.  She  could  not  speak.  He  took  both 
h«r  hands  in  his,  and  led  her  on. 

"  This  way,  Harriet.  I  made  Bracken  Hollow  the  place  o( 
tiyst  because  we  can  enter  and  talk  undisturbed.  I  feared  you 
would  not  come.  I  might  have  known  you  better ;  I  might  have 
known  that  whenever  or  wherever  /  called,  you  would  have 
answered.     Can  you  realize,  Harriet,  that  it  is  I  ?  " 

She  could  not,  indeed.  No  voice  within  responded  to  his 
tone  or  touch.  That  creeping  sensation  of  fear  was  over  her 
still.  He  had  drawn  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  was  hurrying 
her  rapidly  on.  She  looked  up  at  him,  tall  above  her,  and 
strove  to  recall  some  resemblance.  She  could  recall  none. 
All  was  strange,  vague,  and  unknown.  She  did  not  speak  one 
word  ;  she  let  herself  be  hurried  on,  breathless  and  palpitat- 

They  reached  the  ^te  ;  he  opened  it.  The  house  loomed 
ap,  all  darkness  and  silent  amid  its  funeral  trees.  At  sight  oi 
it  she  suddenly  stopped. 

"1  caf^t  go  OR  I"  she  gasped— "I  can't  enter  there!  It 
looks  like  Hades  itself  I  Oh,  Lionel  Cardandl,  is  this  really 
you  ?  " 

*^  Come,  come,  come  I "  waj  his  only  answer,  s^kcn  finely. 

He  hurried  her  forward ;  she  had  no  power  or  strength  to 
Insist.     The  door  was  flung  wide  at  their  approach.     Almost 


!:•' 


V 

n 


\Mt  woa»d  of 
dandlooktti 

skf— dead 

jred  tgain— - 
chosen  thisT 
ght,  glancing 
t  from  theM 

ill  figure  Aa^ 


e!  I  feared 
I  those  years, 

s,  the  face  of 
)  fast  that  it 
ie  took  both 

the  place  of 
I  feared  you 
I  might  have 

would  have 

onded  to  his 
vas  over  her 
was  hurrying 
jve  her,  anJ 
recall  none. 
ot  speak  one 
and  palpitat- 

ouse  loomed 
At  sight  oi 

T  there!  It 
is  this  really 

oken  finrly. 
r  strength  t« 
ich.     Almost 


rirn  iLAsr  tjtfr 


49 


Dcfore  she  cviuld  realize  it  sHe  was  in  uic  hoti&c  -in  a  iightec 
room ;  the  door  was  closed  behind  her,  locked  and  barred. 

An  old  woman  stood  before  her ;  at  her  she  did  not  look 
She  turned  to  the  man,  trembling  from  head  to  foot    His  coat 
collar  was  turned  up,  his  slouched  hat  pulled  down  ;  but  hidden 
as  his  face  was,  she  knew  in  an  mstant  it  was  not  the  maa  sIm 
had  come  to  meet. 

'*  Who  is  it  ? "  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  whisper,  her  black  eyci 
gleaming  fearfully  through  her  veil. 

He  ttuned  dcwn  his  collar,  took  off  his  hat,  and  showed  the 
pale,  set  face  rA — Henrj'  Otis. 

"  You  recognize  me,  Mrs.  Vavasor  ?  Yes,  1  see  you  do.  \\ 
is  many  years  since  we  met,  but  your  memory  is  good,  I  know 
of  old.  Will  yr/i  not  put  up  your  vei!  and  let  us  see  you. 
Further  disguise  is  unnecessary." 

She  obeyed  him.  She  flung  back  the  veil  and  showed  a  face, 
aged,  sallow,  pallid  with  fear — all  tract',  of  beauty  gone — noth- 
ing of  it  remaining  but  the  wild  black  eyes. 

'*  Mr.  Otis,"  she  gasped,  "  why  have  you  done  this  ?" 

"  To  make  you  tell  tiie  truth  at  last,"  he  answered.  "  Theie 
is  but  one  way  of  dealing  with  such  women  as  you — and 
that  is  the  dark  way  of  deceit.  Yes,  I  wrote  you  that  letter 
signed  Lionel  Cardanell.  I  knew  that  poetic  idyl  of  youi 
youth,  you  see;  and  it  has  succeeded  better  even  than  1 
hoped.  You  have  no  idea  what  a  task  it  was  to  hunt  you  up, 
and  then  hit  on  a  scheme  to  fetch  you  here ;  but  I  have  done 
both.  If  you  had  not  come  to  me,  /  should  have  gone  to  you. 
Take  a  seat ;  you  look  Caitigued  Hannah,  Mrs.  Vavasor  will 
take  a  glass  of  wine." 

She  sank  into  the  feat,  her  eyes  fixed  fearfully  upon  him,  hei 
very  lips  trembling.  Years  ard  dissipation  had  told  upon  Mrs, 
Vavasor's  strong  nerves. 

"  Why  have  you  brought  me  to  this  place  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  to  murder  you — do  not  be  afraid ;  though  it  looks 
ffruesome  enough  for  a  murder,  I  dare  say.  I  don't  mean  to 
oo  you  the  least  harm — to  do  you  good  indeed — to  make  you 
tell  the  truth." 

"  The  truth  about  what  ?  ** 

He  leaned  across — there  was  a  table  between  them,  and  his 
•teely  bine  eyes  seemed  to  cut  into  her  very  heart 

"  About  the  children  you  changed  at  nurse  twenty  years  age 
The  time  has  come  fi>r  the  truth  to  be  made  known.  You  gave 


I 


«!■; 


.! 


m 


Ttn    LAST  UNK. 


\-  di 


M 


%\ 


jrour  daaghter  to  the  Rarl  oK  Ruysland,  and  joxa  kept  hia.  H«  i 
will  you  answer  to  God  and  man  for  that  ?  " 

There  had  been  a  time  when  Mrs.  Vavasor  vtould  hare  luifd 
pluck  enough  to  reply  as  Claverhouse  replied  to  the  umc 
question  of  the  Covenanter's  widow:  "To  man  I  can  anaw«B 
well  enough,  and  (^d  I  will  take  in  my  own  hand  ; "  but  that 
tim>i  was  past.  She  sank  back  in  her  seat,  her  hands  over  hcR 
tyei)  cowering,  shrinking,  like  the  guilty  creature  she  was,  befom 
kim—  not  daring  to  meet  that  stem,  terrible  face.  The  strange 
adventure,  her  nervous  fear,  the  darkness,  the  solitude — all  wero 
telling  upon  her  as  such  things  tell  upon  women. 

"It  was  rather  a  hackneyed  plan  of  vengeance " — the  cold, 
quiet,  pitiless  tones  of  Henry  Otis  went  on — "  taken  second- 
hand from  or*;  of  your  favorite  three-volume  novels,  and  quite 
unworthy  the  originality  and  inventive  genius  you  have  displayed 
in  later  years.  You  make  no  attempt  to  deny  it,  I  see  \  that  at 
least  is  wise." 

"  I  do  deny  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Vavasor,  plucking  up  courage 
from  sheer  desperation  at  last.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  of.  How  dare  you  bring  me  here?  What  is  the 
meaning  of  this  infamous  plot  ?  How  dare  you  detain  me  in 
this  dreadful  house?  Let  me  go,  Henry  Otis,  or  it  will  Ue 
worse  for  you." 

She  rose  up  and  faced  him — at  bay — her  face  gray  with  few., 
%nd  a  hunted  light  in  her  black  eyes. 

"  How  dare  you  write  me  that  letter  1 — how  dare  you  sijija 
that  name  ! — how  dare  you  bring  me  all  the  way  from  Paris  to 
—to  meet — " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  covered  her  face  with  both  hands,  and 
burst  into  a  passion  of  tears — tears  of  rage,  of  fright,  of  disap- 
pointment. The  old  love  for  the  handsome,  high-bom  lover 
irf  her  youth  lived  yet  in  her  heart — that  battered,  world-hard- 
ened heart  had  throbbed  with  the  purest  rapture  it  had  felt  for 
/ears  at  the  thought  of  seeing  him  once  more  ;  and  it  was  bitter 
— bitter  to  her  beyond  all  telling  to  have  it  end  like  this. 

"  If  there  be  a  law  to  punish  such  treachery  as  this,  you  shall 
be  punished,  Henry  Otis,  when  1  go  free,"  she  passionately 
cried. 

"  *  When  you  go  free,' "  Mr.  Otis  repeated ;  "ah,  but  yon 
are  iwi  going  free  i  I  don't  do  my  work  in  that  bungling  wav. 
As  cleverly  as  you  plotted  to  entrap  Katherine  Dingerneld  sis 
years  ago,  so  I  have  entrapped  you  to-night.  Pause  a  niomenl 
and  think.    No  one — not  a  soul — knows  you  are  here,  and  i 


hiB.    K«  / 


d  hare 
)  the  SAUK 
can  aniwflB 
;"  bat  that 
ds  over  hcR 
was,  bcfom 
Fhe  strange 
le — all  were 

• — the  cold, 
ten  second- 
s,  and  quite 
ve  displayed 
see ;  that  at 

up  courage 
hat  you  are 
/'hat  is  tUe 
etain  me  in 
ir  it  will  Ue 

ay  with  feM.. 

ire  you  sign 
om  Paris  to 

1  hands,  and 
ht,  of  disap- 
i-bom  lover 
world-hard- 
had  felt  for 
it  was  bitter 
e  this. 

lis,  you  shall 
passionately 

ah,  but  yon 
tingling  wa^. 
ngerneld  su 
se  a  moment 
here,  and  I 


rue    t.AST    l.I^K 


4^ 


preiume  you  have  left  no  frirndn  behind  in  Pans  who  will  tron- 
ble  themselves  greatly  to  make  search  for  you.  Women  iika 
you  make  no  friends.  This  house,  as  you  have  seen,  is  utierlj 
lonely  and  isolated — it  is  reputed  to  be  haunted — no  om 
comes  here  who  can  possibly  avoid  it.  And  here  you  stay-"- 
though  it  shall  be  weeks,  months — until  you  make  a  full  con- 
fession. Make  it  to-night,  and  you  go  free—  refuse,  and  yoM 
are  locked  up  until  ^ou  do.  Here  are  pen,  ink,  arjd  paper~ 
dictate  your  confession  and  I  will  write  it  down." 

She  sat  mute,  dogged,  her  hands  clenched,  her  lips  that,  hm 
*ycs  glittering. 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  she  asked,  sullenly. 

"  Enough  to  send  you  to  Newgate.  That  when  Ix^rd  Ruys- 
land  came  to  your  cottage  to  claim  his  child  a  year  after  ita 
mother's  death,  you  ^ave  him  yours  and  kept  his.  You  tept 
the  infant  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  and  gave  the  Earl  of  Ruysland 
John  Harman's  daughter.  John  Harman's  daughter  lives  m 
luxury  at  Scarswood  Park  to-night,  and  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  the 
real  Lady  Cecil,  is — wherCy  Mrs.  Harman  ?  Sold  like  a  slave 
to  strangers  in  her  third  year — strangers  who  loved  her,  lit- 
tle thanks  to  you.  Still  your  vengeance  against  her  dead 
mother,  who  had  robbed  you  of  your  lover,  was  not  sated.  On 
her  wedding  day  you  came  forward  and  told  the  world  she  was  not 
the  daughter  of  Sir  John  Dangerfield — you  took  care  not  to  tell 
wfwse  daughter  »h-  waj* — you  robbed  her  of  her  husband,  home, 
and  name — you  killed  her  as  surely  as  ever  murderess  killed 
her  victim.  Th4Mt  is  what  I  know.  The  story  Lord  Ruysland  shall 
hear,  whether  or  no  y&u  confess.  The  law  of  England  would 
force  your  story  from  you  if  1  gave  you  over  to  it.  I  chose, 
however,  to  take  the  law  in  my  own  hand.  Out  of  this  house 
fou  never  go  alive  until  you  have  confessed." 

She  listened  to  him,  her  face  settUng,  sullen  and  dark. 

"  I'll  never  confess.  I  say  again  I  don't  know  what  you  aie 
talking  of.  1  gave  Lord  Ruysland  his  daughter — mine  died. 
The  child  Sir  John  Dangerfield  adopted  was  my — my  cousin's 
daughter  ;  I  had  an  old  grudge  against  her  mother.  1  say  again, 
Henry  Otis,  let  me  go,  or  it  will  be  worse  for  you.  Threats  and 
illegal  punishment  are  Newgate  matters,  if  it  comes  to  thut 
Let  me  go,  or  I'll — " 

What  Mrs.  Vavasor  meant  to  do  Henry  Otis  was  never  dei- 
tiued  to  hear.  The  words  seemed  to  freeze  upon  her  lips — ha 
£»ce  slowly  blanched  to  the  ashen  hue  of  death — her  eyes  di 
lated  with  Aome  great  horror.      Henry  Otis  followed  her  glance 


■i 


h  jS^ 


TffH  Last  f jNtt 


'<)» 


fj    f 


I  ■ 


Old  Hannah  .lad  quitted  the  rooni  unobseiveti  some  secondt 
c»efore,  leaving  the  door  ajax.  ThrouKh  thii  door,  vrithual 
wund  of  any  kind,  a  figure  had  glided.  It  stood  now  jost 
irithin  the  doorway,  perfectly  still,  its  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy, 
(t  wore  a  dress  of  some  white  summery  stuff,  its  long,  looM 
uu;  fell  over  its  shoulders,  its  face  was  perfectly  white,  its  eyof 
told  and  fixed,  its  arms  hung  loose  by  its  side^ 

So,  as  in  years  past  she  had  a  hundred  times  seen  Katherine 
Dangerfield  living,  she  saw  her  once  more  to-night  dead.  Dead 
lurely — and  this  was  her  ghost 

She  uttered  no  cry,  no  sound.  Slowly,  step  by  step,  she  re- 
coiled, that  utter  horror  on  her  face,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  mo- 
tionless figure,  until  the  wall  barred  her  progress. 

"  Look  /  "  she  whispered,  in  an  awful  voice.     "  Look  /  " 

"Look  where?"  Henry  Otis  repeated,  stoically.  "I  don'i 
•ee  anything." 

"  At  the  door  !  "  still  in  the  same  awful  whisper — **  see — it  is 
—Katherine  Dangerfield  1     Look  I " 

"  Well,"  Mr.  Otis  responded  testily,  "  /  am  looking  and  1 
don't  see  anything.  You're  dreaniing,  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Kathe- 
rine Dangerfield  is  in  Castleford  chi  rchyard,  is  she  not  ?  She 
can't  be  at  Bracken  Hollow.  Come  \  look  at  me,  and  leave  off 
<;tariiig  in  that  crhastly  way  at  nothing." 

She  turned  her  eyes  slowly  upon  him  for  an  instant,  then 
they  moved  back  as  if  beyond  all  control  of  hers  to  the  door. 
The  specter  had  vanished.  And  Mrs.  Vavasor,  with  a  gasping 
cry,  fell  down  fainting  in  a  heap. 

"  Artistically  done.  You're  the  most  useful  of  ghosts,  Kath- 
erine," Mr.  Otis  cried,  springing  up.  "  Come  in,  pray,  and  fetch 
salts  and  cold  water.      I  think  she'll  need  no  urging  to  tell 

liOW." 

Miss  Hemcastle  came  forward,  a  smile  on  her  fkce — the  salts 
is  her  hand. 

"  i  don't  tliink  she  will  It  was  quite  as  much  as  I  could  do 
W  preserve  ray  gravity,  standing  stock  still  there  under  hei 
horrified  gaze.  I  am  afraid  I  should  have  laughed  outright,  and 
jjioiled  the  tableau  if  you  had  not  called  her  attention  off.  Yes, 
I  think  we  shall  have  the  truth  now." 

"  You  hai  better  go — she  is  coming  round,"  said  Mr.  Otis,  as 
the  widow's  eyelids  fluttered;  "vanish,  Katherine,  and  send 
llannatt  here.     You'll  hear  all  in  the  passage." 

Hannah  re-entered — Miss  Hemcastle  disappeared.  Mrs. 
Vavasor's   black  eyes  opened  to  the  light     She  started  up — 


rt¥K  LAST  rr/^tr 


499 


ii.eiiiofy  fctuming  with  cvniciousnssi — and  giAsped  the  aira  ui 
Henry  i)tis. 

"  Has  slie  gone  ?  "  Her  ryes  went  wildly  to  the  door.  "  Yci, 
1  tell  you  I  saw  her — Katherine — as  plainly  as  I  ever  saw  hei 
in  my  life.  Mr.  Otis,  for  God's  sake  take  me  away — don't  leave 
qae  or  I  shall  go  raving  mad." 

"  1  shall  take  you  away,  and  I  shall  not  leave  yuu  a  raofBCtf 
/lone,  if  you  will  speak  the  truth." 

"Yes — yes,  I  will.  I'll  do  anything — tell  anything,  onlj 
stay  with  me  for  the  love  of  Heaven.  I  would  rather  die  thas 
see  her  again." 

She  cowered  down  into  her  chair,  her  face  hidden  in  hei 
oands,  and  in  a  sort  of  gasping  whisper  told  her  story. 

"  I  confess  it  all,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  began  ;  "  I  don't  know  how 
you  have  found  it  out,  but  it  is  true,  every  vord.  I  did  change 
the  children.  I  hated  the  Countess  of  Ruysland  ;  but  for  her 
I  would  have  been  Lionel  Cardanell's  wife.  1  married  John 
Harman,  but  I  despised  him.  Poor,  weak  fool,  I  was  glad 
when  he  died.  She  gave  me  money,  she  gave  me  presents, 
and  I  took  them  all,  and  hated  her  more  every  day.  She 
(vasn't  happy  with  her  husband — thai  was  some  comfort.  She 
was  jealous — she  had  a  furious  temper;  Katherine  inherited 
it,  you  may  re.nember."  She  shivered  as  she  pronounced  the 
aame.  "  My  baby  was  a  month  old  the  night  she  ran  away 
from  the  earl  in  a  fit  of  fury  and  came  to  me.  I  didn't  care 
for  the  child ;  I  always  disliked  children  ;  I  used  to  wish  it 
might  die.  It  was  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  I  hated  trouble ; 
and  it  looked  like  John  Harman.  Why  should  I  care  for  it  ? 
She  came  to  me ;  she  thought  I  had  forgotten  and  foi given, 
and  was  her  friend.  She  didn't  know  me,  you  see.  That 
night  her  babv  was  bom — a  girl,  too.  Next  morning  she  was 
dead.  She  died  in  my  arms,  in  my  poor  cottage,  without  Kus 
band  or  friend  near  her.  That  would  have  satisfied  niusr 
women — it  didn't  satisfy  me.  They  came  and  took  her  awA« 
llie  earl  told  me  to  keep  and  nurse  the  child — who  so  tit  as  I  ^ 
I  don't  believe  he  ever  looked  at  it.  He  didn't  much  care  for 
his  wifC;  but  the  manner  of  her  death  was  a  shock  and  a 
scandal.     They  buried  her,  and  he  went  away. 

"  I^  was  then  that  the  plan  of  changing  the  children  occurred 
to  me.  Some  people  believe  the  spirits  in  Heaven  heai  asid 
sec  and  watch  over  their  Joved  ones  on  earth.  No  doubt  th« 
Countess  of  Ruyaiand  was  in  Heaven — could  a  lady  of  hei 
r4iik  go  anywhere  elite  ?    '^Cil,  it  *vould  be  a  satisfaction  to  lei 


;*  a 


%g6 


THH   iJiST  LINtr 


iji 


h  ' 


III 


.ler  see  her  daughter  growing  up  in  f>overty  and  obicurity,  tad 
John  Harman's  in  rank  and  luxury.  His  lordship  paid  rm 
ireU ;  I  sold  out  Harman's  business  and  left  the  town,  where  1 
and  th«  children  were  known.  I  went  to  live  in  a  village  scmt 
thirty  miles  away,  where  the  fraud  could  be  carried  on  in 
safety.  I  took  no  especial  care  of  either  of  them,  but  the^ 
grew  and  thrived  in  spite  of  that  My  daughter  had  brown 
eyes  and  flaxen  hair,  and  was  small  and  delicate-looking — much 
ihe  prettier  of  the  two.  The  earl's  daughter  had  gray  eyes  and 
fail  hair,  and  was  large  for  a  child  of  two  years.  She  had  hei 
mother's  temper  and  her  mother's  will ;  mine  was  one  of  the 
gentlest  creatures  that  ever  was  born ;  I  called  the  Earl's 
daughter  Kaiherine.  I  called  mine  Cecil,  as  l^ord  Ruysland 
had  desired  his  daughter  to  be  named.  I  was  well  paid,  but  I 
frew  tired  to  death  of  taking  care  of  them  and  vegetating  in  a 
stupid  village.     1  wrote  to  Ix)rd  Ruysland  to  come  for  his  child. 

"  He  came,  and  I  gave  him  mine.  I  did  not  let  him  see  the* 
other  at  all ;  I  told  him  my  little  girl  was  ailing,  and  he  took  the 
other  away  totally  unsuspecting.  Then  I  sold  oiT  everything 
and  went  to  France,  taking  little  Kathie  with  me.  The  col 
lision  in  which  I  was  badly  hurt  followed — the  child  escaped 
in  the  hospital  Colonel  Dangerfield  came  to  see  me  ;  he  thought 
1  was  poor,  and  I  did  not  undeceive  him.  His  only  daughter 
had  been  instantly  killed — he  offered  to  adopt  little  Kathie  m 
her  stead,  and  I  closed  with  the  o£fer  at  once.  I  never  saw 
her  again  until,  under  the  name  of  Mrs.  Vavasor,  I  came  to 
Scars  wood  Park,  and  met  her  as  Sir  John's  heiress. 

**  I  solemnly  swear  that  the  young  girl  who  was  known  as 
Katherine  Dangerfield  was  in  reality  the  Lady  Cecil  Clive, 
only  child  of  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Ruysland.  The  person 
who  now  bears  that  title  is  my  daughter,  christened  Katherine 
Harman.  I  will  swear  this  in  any  court  of  law.  I  changed 
dbero  out  of  revenge  upon  the  late  Lady  Ruysland. 

"(Signed)  Harriet  Harman." 

The  wretched  woman  wrote  her  name,  old  Hannah  and 
Henry  Otis  affixed  theirs  as  witnesses.  He  folded  up  the  doc< 
ument,  superscribed  it  "  Confession  of  Harriet  Harman,"  and 
placed  it  in  his  breast-pocket  She  sat  watching  every  motion 
with  terrified  eyes. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

*<  I  am  going  to  place  it  in  the  hands  of  I  x>rd  Ruysland  be 
iwcen  thM  loia  to>-inorrow  nig.it     Thr  rank   and  name  yow 


Mi! 


arity,  ami 

paid  nM 
if  where  1 
lage  fCiM 
id  on   in 

but  thejr 
ad  brown 
ig — much 

eyes  and 
e  had  hei 
ne  of  the 
the  Earl's 

Ruysland 
>aid,  but  I 
ating  in  a 
r  his  child, 
im  see  th«; 
le  took  the 
everything 

The  col 
I  escaped 
he  thought 
'  daughter 

Kathie  in 
never  saw 
came  to 

known  as 
cil  Clive, 
he  person 
Katherine 
changed 


ft 


.rmanJ 

nnah  and 
the  doc- 
nan/'  and 
ry  motioD 

island  be 
ame  you 


BVNTMM  D6WN 


499 


da^&gi'.ter  has  urarped  for  two-and-twenty  years,  ihall  ••  takev 
froiu  her  before  the  expiration  of  four -and  twenty  hours.  ** 

*'  it  was  no  fault  of  hers,"  the  guilty  woman  said  with  bca 
blinfl  lipff. 

*' You  made  Ix>rd  Ruysland's  daughter  pay  the  penalty  ol 
hex  mother's  actions — yi«rs  shall    pay  the  |)enalt^   of  hctt 
Y'o:  yoa,"  Mj.  Otis  arose,  "  Lord  Ruysland  shall  deal  witk 
^'ou  as  he  sees  fit." 

She  .ktartcd  to  her  feet  and  caught  him  as  he  was  turning 
A  way. 

"Take  me  away  from  this  horrible  house — no? ,  at  once 
You  promised,  yon  know.  Do  anything  you  like,  only  take 
ire  away." 

*'  Not  to-night,"  he  answered,  coldly.  '*  It  is  impossible. 
You  would  make  your  escape,  and  that  I  can't  allow.  Six 
years  ago  you  had  your  day — this  is  mine.  The  mercy  you 
showed  Katherine  Dangerfield  then  shall  be  meted  out  to  you 
now.  Don't  be  afraid — you  shall  not  be  left  alone.  You 
shall  have  a  Ught  Hannah,  take  her  up  to  the  r  .a  prepared 
for  her,  and  remain  with  her  all  night." 

He  drew  himself  from  her  grasp,  and  left  the  room.  He 
heard  her  cry  of  terror  and  despair  as  he  went  out  Misi 
Herncastle  stixl  stood  in  the  passage.  He  took  her  hand  and 
led  her  into  another  room,  and  gave  her  the  paper. 

"  The  world  shall  know  you  as  you  are  at  last,"  he  said — 

should  have  borne  fr( 


give  yov 


name  you 


youi 


birth.     Let  me  be  the  first  to  call  you  by  it."     He  lifted  hei 
hand  to  his  lips.     "  Lady  Cecil  Clive." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


HUMTID   DOWM. 


T  was  very  early  on  the  momine  of  the  ensuing  day— 
so  early  that  the  rosy  spears  of  sunrise  were  but  juitf 
gUncing  th^tntgh  the  tall  firs  and  waving  brake  arouiW 
Bracken  Hollow, — when  a  loud,  authontative  knock 
aroused  the  inmates  of  the  lonely  old  house  from  their  slumbcitt 
In  five  minutes,  old  Hannah  was  up  and  dressed,  and  in  the 
rnctw  of  hfiT  young  mlatreiMi 


I 


II J  I 


i 


u 


*  ' 


h< 


I  ' 


I    1 


EJ:I 


1 1 


#98 


auMTtLD  oowa. 


KatheHne  (let  ui  call  tier  by  the  old  name)  had  fMang  (loa 
\Kt  bed  also  as  that  authoritative  knock  resounded  tkronfh  tb9 
house. 

'*  It  must  be  Hennr  Otis — it  can  be  no  or  *lse  at  thii  hoar. 
Uo  open  the  door,  Hannah,  and  let  them  ii  ioevcr  tfcej  nia| 
Se." 

"  But  ray  dear—" 

**  There  \^  nothing  to  fear,  whether  it  be  friend  or  foe.  L' 
Ikcy  do  not  come  to  me  1  shall  go  to  them.  The  power  Im 
mine  now,  and  the  victory.  Before  the  sun  sets,  Harriet  Har- 
joan's  confession  shall  be  in  the  hands  of  my  Lord  of  Ruynland. 
I'hey  shall  learn,  one  and  all,  who  the  despised  govemeM 
^vhoin  they  have  turned  from  their  doors  is  to  their  cost." 

"  And  then  ?  "  old  Hannah  said. 

"Ahl  And  then—  'Sufficient  unto  the  day,'  etc  Go 
open  the  door,  Hannah — there  is  the  knock  again ;  and  on  my 
word,  whoever  the  gentleman  is,  he  knocks  commandingly." 

Hannah  went.  She  flung  open  the  door  and  stood  con 
(routed  by  a  tall  man,  with  a  dark,  handsome,  stem-looking 
<kce,  and  an  unmistakably  military  air. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Miss  Hemcastle,"  this  gentleman  began,  with 
perfect  abruptness;  "  I  know  that  she  is  here." 

'*  Who  are  you,  sir  ? "  old  Hannah  demanded,  with  equal 
sternness  ;  "  and  by  what  right  do  you  come  at  such  a  time  ol 
morning  as  this,  routing  decent  folks  out  of  their  beds  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  O'Donnell.  I  am  Miss  Henicastle's  friend, 
and  I  hare  come  to  do  her  a  service  while  there  is  yet  time. 
Before  two  hours  it  may  be  too  late.  Give  her  this,  I  entreat 
vou,  and  tell  her  I  must  tee  her." 

"  He  says  it  as  though  he  were  a  king,"  thought  old  Hannah. 
**  He  looks  grand  enough  and  noble  enough  for  any  king. 
O'Donnell  ?  Why,  hi 's  the  Irish  officer  who  found  her  out — 
;hat  she's  most  afraid  of." 

^^he  stood  irresolute,  holding  the  card  he  had  given  her,  anJ 
to^king  angrily  and  doubtfully  from  him  to  it. 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  want  here  -  what  you  mean  by 
calling  here.  You're  no  friend  of  Miss  Herncastle's — I  know 
ikM.  You're  the  man  that  followed  her — that  has  been  her 
enemv  and  pursuer  from  the  first.  How  dare  you  call  yourieli 
her  friend?" 

*'  1  tell  you,"  ODonneil  exclaimed  impatiently,  "  I  am  hei 
friend ;  I  want  \m  serve  her  if  she  will  let  me.  She  has  res 
4ered  HerMlf  amenable  to  the  law  ;  she  is  an  obirct  of  snsp^ 


HUNTED  DOWH. 


4fm 


iMang  (torn 
tnrottfh  tb<» 

It  thii  hoar, 
rcrtlrq  toB} 

I  or  foe.  li' 
le  power  in 
larriet  Har- 
>f  Ruynland. 
I  govemesa 
cost." 

/  etc     Go 
and  on  mj* 

indingly." 
stood  con 

tern-looking 

>  began,  with 

with  equal 
ch  a  time  ol 
ds?" 

tie's  friend, 
is  yet  time, 
s,  I  entreat 

)ld  Hannah, 
any  king. 
1  her  out — 

en  her,  ami 

u  mean  by 
;'s — I  know 
been  her 
:all  yoursell 

'<  I  am  hei 
he  hai  res 
ct  oi  sRsp^ 


clon  ;  the  officers  are  on  her  track.     If  ytm  are  hei  friend,  ymi 

irill  give  her  that  card  at  once." 

"Yes,  Hannah,  give  it  to  me.     I'm  not  afraid  of  Ci^tab 

0  DonnelL     Let  me  see  what  he  has  to  say." 

it  was  Katherine  herself— in  slippers  ar:!  dressing  gown — 
ht?r  brown  hair  undone,  rippling  in  the  old  girlish  way  over  her 
t^Muiders.  In  that  white  n^glig^,  with  hair  unbound  and  iti 
.'fttural  color,  she  looked,  with  the  rose-flush  of  the  August  sun* 
Me  v\x)n  her,  younger,  fairer,  fresher  than  he  haul  ever  seen 
I"  er  before. 

She  took  no  notice  of  him.  She  received  the  card  from 
Hannah  gravely — and  gravely  examined  it  Beneath  his  name 
in  pencil  was  written  : 

''  1  know  that  you  are  here.  1  come  as  your  fnend.  If  you 
have  any  regard  for  yourself  you  will  sec  me  at  once." 

She  lookt;d  up  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  smile — 

1  smile  that  had  something  of  the  old  brightness,  the  old  saucy 
defiance  of  Katherine  Dangerfield. 

"  Good-morning,  Captain  O'Donnell.  My  friends  are  so 
few  and  far  between  at  present,  that  it  would  be  a  thousand 
pities  to  refuse  an  audience  to  one  of  them.  But  yffu  my 
%iend  !  Isn't  that  rather  a  new  rdle  for  the  gallant  Captain  of 
/hasseurs  ?  " 

She  led  the  way  into  the  bare-looking  apartment,  where  last 
night  Harriet  Harman  had  made  her  confession,  and  pointed 
Lo  a  chair.  Inhere  was  a  grace,  a  triumph  about  her  he  had 
never  seen  before — the  whole  expression  of  her  face  was 
changed.  Where  was  the  sad,  somber  face  of  Miss  Hemcastle 
now  ?     A  sort  of  proud  triumph  lit  all  the  face  before  him. 

He  accepted  the  chair  only  to  lean  across  its  wooden  back 
and  look  at  her.  She  stood  where  the  golden  sunshine  fell 
fuUest  upon  her — her  tall  form  looking  taller  and  more  classic 
ihau  ever  in  hei  trailing  white  robe,  a  crimson  cord  for  her 
|irdle,  The  brown  hair  was  swept  oflF  forehead  and  templei*, 
ehowiyg  the  scar  on  the  left  plainly,  and  adding  to  the  nobility 
o(  her  face.  The  black  had  been  washed  from  the  eyebrows — 
altogether  she  was  changed  almost  out  of  knowledge.  There 
was  a  smile  on  her  lips,  a  light  in  her  eyes,  a  elow  on  her  cheekf 
that  transfigured  her.  The  hour  of  her  victory  had  come ; 
ihe  stood  before  him 


tal. 


Yes.  fair  in  this  moiDent,  if  never  fair  hefme. 


1 


ill 


81   s 


f| 


SM 


BUNTED  DOWN. 


'Will  Captain  ODonnell — my  friend- who  has  hnnt<s4  iM 
down  from  nrst  to  latt — speak  ?  What  is  it  that  has  taken  jroo 
out  of  your  bed  at  this  ancivilixed  hour,  and  brought  yoa  tc 
Bracken  Hollow,  and  me  ?  " 

The  ringing  tone  of  her  voice,  the  meaning  sparkle  of  tj% 
rind  smile,  confounded  him. 

"  It  is  so  easy  to  be  mistaken,"  she  went  on,  still  smiling.  **  j 
confess  among  the  few,  the  very  few  I  count  as  my  friends,  y^m 
name  is  the  last  1  should  ever  dream  of  adding  to  the  list.  But 
then  strongly  marked  characters  have  strongly  original  way« 
of  proving  their  likes  and  dislikes.  Hunting  me  down  may 
be  your  way  of  proving  your  friendship.  What  is  it  Captain 
O'Donnell  has  come  here  at  six  in  the  morning  to  say  ?" 

"  To  say  you  are  in  daneer — to  say  your  game  is  up,  to  say 
all  is  known — that  the  police  are  on  your  track,  that  this  very 
day — or  to-morrow  at  ^rthest,  they  will  be  here.  To  wart 
you  for  the  last  time." 

"  Fok  the  last  time — to  warn  me  of  what  ?  " 

"  To  fly— I  repeat,  all  is  known— n*//." 

"  What  does  all  comprise  ?     May  I  ask  you  lo  explain  ?  " 

"  It  means  that  a  detective  has  been  on  your  track  from  the 
hour  you  quitted  Scarswood,  that  by  day  and  night  you  have 
been  watched,  that  y^u  are  known  as  the  Gaston  Dantree  who, 
by  fair  means  or  foul,  has  won  an  enormous  sum  from  Sir  Petei 
Dangerfield  at  cards — that  the  real  Gaston  Dantree  is  sh-Jt  up 
here  at  Bracken  Hollow — an  idiot,  and  has  been  for  years.  Ah, 
you  feel  that.     I  repeat — all  is  known — all." 

The  smile  faded  from  her  lips,  the  old  hard  expression  looked 
at  him  out  of  her  gray  eyes. 

"  A  detective  on  my  track.  I  did  not  dream  of  that  indeed 
And  to  whom  am  I  indebted  for  that  delicate  attention  ?  Tc 
my  friend,  Captain  O'Donnell,  of  course." 

"  No,  Miss  Hemcastle,  not  in  this  instance.  To  the  Righ 
Honorable  the  Earl  of  Ruysland." 

A  shadow  came  over  her  face,  a  gray,  somber  shadow.  Sh<t 
Hit  down  suddenly  with  an  iltered  expression. 

"The  Earl  of  Ruysland,"  she  repeated,  "What  had  1 
done  to  him  f  Ah,  I  understand — the  law  calls  upon  every 
honest  man  to  hunt  down  a  rogue.  And  the  F>arl  of  Ruysland 
has  set  a  detective  on  my  track,  is  this  ail  his  noble  lord«hi( 
has  discovered,  or  is  there  something  else  ?  " 

"  This  is  all  he  ham  absolutely  di*i<)vere<i,  but  there  is  som? 
ttkln^  else.      He  str.-^njfly  suspcctsi  the  dc'*th  znA  burial  of  K  atti 


&s  hnnte^  im 
tas  taken  ytm 
ought  yoa  tc 

;)arkle  of  ep 

smiling.  **  j 
friends,  /mi 
the  list.  But 
original  wajrt 
e  down  may 
is  it  Captain 
I  say?" 
is  up,  to  say 
that  this  very 
e.     To  wan 


explain  ?  " 
ack  from  the 
[ght  you  have 
)antree  who, 
oin  Sir  Pctci 
2e  is  sh'Jt  up 
years.    Ah, 

ssion  looked 

that  indeed 
intion  ?     Tr 

o  the  Righ 

adow      Shit 

liat  had    i 

upon  ever^ 

)f  Ruysland 

ble  iordahi^ 

:re  is  soin? 
ial  of  K  5<tt\ 


HUNTED   DOWN, 


$or 


ertne  Dangerfield  to  b*  tx^s,  and  Miss  Hemcastle  and  KAlh^ 
erinc  Dangerfield  to  be  one  and  the  same." 

*'  Was  it  actirg  on  this  suspicion  that  you  went  up  to  Tendon 
and  nearly  frightened  poor  Mrs.  Otis  to  death?" 

"  I  was  actirg  on  no  suspicion — 1  rarely  act  on  that.  I  wu 
tcting  on  cer^  \\cXy  I  knew  the  grave  m  Castlefo»"d  churchyard 
to  be  a  fraud — the  tombstone  lying  even  more  than  tombatonei 
ftsually  lie.     I  knew  that  grave  held  an  empty  coffin." 

'» May  I  ask  how  ?  " 

'  In  the  sunplest  manner  possible.  I  employed  a  retor- 
lectionist,  and  I  opened  the  grave.  We  raised  the  cofl&n,  opened 
^'hat,  and  found,  as  I  told  you — nothing." 

*♦  You  (lid  this  ? '' 

-  1  did  this." 

She  s.";t  and  looked  at  him — wonder,  not  unmixed  with  a 
species  of  amusement  and  admiration,  in  her  face. 

"  And  yt* t  y<)\i  call  yourself  my  friend.  Captain  CyDonnell, 
you're  an  extraordinary  man." 

"  No  ;  I  don't  see  it,"  he  answered,  coolly.  "  It  wasn't  any- 
thing very  extraordinary.  From  the  hour  I  discovered  youi 
identity  with  the  New  York  actress  my  suspicions  were  aroused. 
Von  had  never  given  up  the  stage  and  buried  yourself  alive  at 
Scarswood  in  the  capacity  of  governess  without  some  powerful 
latent  motive.  That  motive  1  confess  I  felt  curious  to  discover. 
Then  you  made  love  to  Sii  Arthur  Tregenna — 1  beg  your  par 
don — permitted  him  to  fall  in  love  with  your  Katherine 
smiled  once  more.  "As  Sir  Arthur  had  long  before  been 
signed,  sealeo^  and  delivered  over  to  Lady  Cecil  (.^live,  and  \\t 
seemed  i)Owerless  to  help  hini.self»  !  teit  called  upon  t(»  helj! 
him.  He  is  my  friend,  you  knf>w,  so  a!s<»  is  his  afFianr.e<l  v.ife, 
Tlien  you  played  ghost  -oh  yes  you  'S\A.  \  xtx<\  Rnysland  sa-^ 
you — and  frightened  Sir  Fetei  to  the  verier  uf  insanity.  A!t.'^ 
fjethe:  you  were  too  dangerous  a  sort  of  person  to  be  aPo^-eO 
In  go  on  withoQt  a  short  pull-up  froni  so!»)e  one.  Destiny,  J 
4«piH>se,  set  me  on  your  track  —  1  didivi  eare  about  hunting 
/cm  down,  as  you  call  it,  and  l  gave  yon  fair  warning.  Yci: 
scorned  all  I  could  say;  so,  as  a  last  resource,  \  went  to  Lon- 
don to  induce  Mr.  Otis  to  cast  Hi-  mlluence  into  tbe  scale. 
Vou  have  proved  more  desperate  md  more  dangerous  thiin  I 
siip^toted.  Sir  Peter  is  as  nearly  mad  as  it  is  possible  to  be, 
if-ut  <^  a  straight-jacket,  ove;  his  losses.  Kor  the  last  (imc  " 
^onte  to  waiTi  you — you  are  af:c«jS4"d  of  rhfanng  at  ciiiJc,  .v' 
plai'i^  a  pi«'toi   at  Sn  Prtrr's  brad,  and  thrratening  hi,?  uf?* / 


:.t 


t,  , 


$02 


HUSTED  DOWN 


■:s      ! 


■;i 


f    > 


Again  his  listener  smiled  as  she  recalled  Sir  Peter's  ghastly  lies 

offright.  "  It  is  an  actionable  matter  to  carry  deadly  weaponi, 
and  threaten  the  Uvea  of  her  Majesty's  liege  subjects.  Then 
you  have  worn  male  attire — you  have  secreted  a  dangerooe 
lunatic,  to  the  terror  of  the  neighborhood ;  in  short,  the  list  o^ 
your  evil  deed'j  is  appalling.  The  police  of  Castleford,  armed 
mth  a  search  warrant,  will  be  here  to-day  or  to-morrow  at  tL« 
furthest  to  search  the  premises — you  will  be  arrested,  impri». 
S^ned,  and  tried.  Miss  Hemcastle.  Miss  Dangerfield, — I  beg  o< 
fou  avoid  this.  Fly  while  there  is  yet  time,  and  save  your- 
self." 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly — earnestly.  '  Captain 
O'Donnell,  I  wonder  why — I  cannot  understand  why  you  should 
take  the  trouble  to  come  here  and  say  this.  You  dishke  me 
with  a  cordiality  there  is  no  mistakmg — you  have  shown  me 
very  little  quarter  hitherto ;  what  object  have  you  in  all  this  \ 
Wliy  should  you  endeavor  to  save  a  woman  you  hold  in  aver- 
sion and  contempt?  a  woman,  in  short,  whom  you  hate?" 

"  Whom  I  hate  1 "  he  repeated  quietly.  "  Since  when  have 
I  told  you  1  hated  you  ?  I  do  not  hate  you — very  far  from  it ; 
and  if  I  held  you  in  aversion  and  contempt  I  certainly  should 
not  take  the  trouble  of  coming  here  to  warn  you.  I  have  hear^ 
Katherine  Dangerfield' «  story — a  strange,  sad  story;  and  I  be 
lieve  her,  even  in  this  hour,  to  be  more  sinned  against  thar 
sinning.  She  has  made  one  great  mistake — she  has  taken 
retribution  in  her  owe  weak  hand — she  has  forgotten  who  has  said 
*  Vengeance  is  mine  ;  I  will  repay  I '  I  believe  a  great  and 
generous  nature  has  been  warped.  Commonplace  women 
would  have  sunk  under  the  blow  ;  being  a  woman  of  genius  she 
has  risen  and  battled  desperately  with  fate.  And  when  a 
woiuan  does  that  she  fails ;  she  must  stoop  to  cunning,  to  plot 
ting,  to  guilt.  Katherine  Dangerfield,  I  pity  you — from  my  soul 
1  do  ;  and  with  my  whole  heart  I  stand  before  you  your  friend. 
It  is  not  too  late  yet ;  pause,  while  there  is  yet  time,  on  tiic 
¥8«d  you  are  treading,  and  go  back." 

There  was  no  mistaking  his  earnestness,  the  generous  gloif 
^  his  face,  the  friendly  warmth  of  his  tone.  She  had  tumec^ 
away  from  hkii  avid  was  looking  out  at  the  golden  morning  sky, 

"Go  bick  !"  she  reycated  bitterly.  "  Is  there  ever  any  ga 
ing  back  in  this  world  ?  Six  years  ago  T  might  have  listened ; 
^o-day  it  is  too  late  " 

"  It  is  never  too  late  while  life  remains.     It  is  onlv  the  twii- 
{•^  point  in  jrour  destiny.     As  y*t  you  have  been  gnilty  only  i* 


,»    !1 


aUHT&D  DO  WW. 


W 


*%  ghastly  bcs 
adlv  wcapoM, 
bjects.  Then 
a  dangerooe 
ort,  the  list  o^ 
tieford,  anned 
morrow  at  tL<e 
rested,  iixi{Mi»> 
eld, — I  beg  of 
nd  save  your- 

''  Captain 

rhy  you  should 

'^ou  dislike  me 

Lve  shown  me 

ou  in  all  this  ^ 

1  hold  in  aver- 

3U  hate?" 

ice  when  have 

ry  far  from  it ; 

srtainly  should 

I  have  hearci 

►ry  ;  and  I  be 

d  against  thar 

le  has  taken 

n  who  has  said 

a  great  and 

jlace  worner 

of  genius  she 

And  when   a 

[ining,  to  plet 

-from  my  soul 

lu  your  friend. 

time,  on  tlie 

jenerous  glow 
le  had  tumec^ 
morning  sky, 
;  ever  any  go 
lave  listened ; 

»nlT  the  t«ro- 
gnilty  only  c* 


MKi^M — not  of  crimes.  Katherine  "--her  face  flashed  all  Dvei 
as  he  pronounced  the  name.  She  turned  to  him  a  sadden,  lar- 
prised,  grateful  glance.  **  Katherine,"  he  held  out  his  band; 
"  for  what  1  have  said  and  done  in  the  past  forgive  me.  Let 
me  be  your  friend,  your  brother,  from  this  hour.  I  pity  yoa,  I 
Admire  you.  You  have  been  wonderfiilly  brave  and  clever, 
I<Ay  down  your  arms — give  up  the  fight.  Which  of  us  can  bat- 
tle agains^  Fate  ?  Give  me  your  hand — give  me  your  promise. 
I  cannot,  I  will  nat  leave  you  until  you  do." 

She  covejed  her  face  with  her  hands,  her  breast  heaving,  tht 
color  burning  in  her  (ace,  moved  to  the  very  depths  of  her  soul, 
with  a  passion  of  which  he  did  not  dream. 

"  I  am  taking  Rose  to  France,"  he  continued,  coming 
nearer,  his  voice  wonderfully  gentle.  "Come  with  us — you 
will  be  safe  there.  You  have  been  sadly  wronged,  I  know ; 
but  life  deals  hardly  with  us  all.  You  know  my  sister's  story 
— you  know  how  her  youth  has  been  wrecked  by  the  same 
hand  that  blighted  yours.  I-^t  that  be  a  bond  of  sympathy  be- 
tween you.  Come  with  us  to  France ;  the  friend  to  whom 
Rose  goes  will  also  shelter  you.  She  means  to  work  for  her 
living,  teaching  in  a  French  school ;  drudgery,  perhaps,  but  she 
insists  upon  it,  and  I  think  myself  labor  is  an  antidote  to  heart- 
break. Come,  Katherine — you  have  fought  long  and  well 
and  nothing  has  come  of  it.     Give  it  up  and  come  with  Rose.* 

Her  hands  dropped  from  her  face  ;  something  in  the  last 
words  seemed  to  rouse  her.     She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"  And  nothing  has  come  of  it  ?  "  she  repeated.     "  That  is 
yoni  mistake,  Captain  O'Donnell.     Something  has  come  of  it 
1  wonder  what  you  would  say  if  1  told  you — what  ?  " 

"Tell  me  and  see." 

"  I  confess,"  she  went  on,  "  to  all  the  crimes  laid  to  my 
charge.  I  am  Katherine  Dangerfield ;  I  have  been  buried  and 
risen  from  the  dead,  and  with  that  resunection  my  natuif 
seemed  to  change.  I  have  brooded  on  one  subject — my 
wrongs — until  I  believe  my  brain  has  turned.  I  fled  from  the 
house  of  ray  true  and  loyal  friend,  Henry  Otis,  and  went  to 
America.  I  became  the  New  York  actress  you  so  cleverly  rcc 
ognized.  From  New  York  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Otis.  I  told  him  U 
Gaston  Dantree  died,  to  bury  him  decently — if  he  lived,  to  fiir 
msh  him  with  money  to  quit  England  ;  if  he  lived,  and  reason 
did  not  return,  as  he  feared,  to  send  him  to  Bracken  Hollow 
— «ot  to  an  asylum.  I  wanted  him  cared  for ;  I  had  heard 
tiQirible  stories  of  insane  asylunos.     I  knew  Hannah  would  b« 


i 


f04 


arUNTED   DOWN, 


m 


\    4 


I    '\ 


good  to  him  Ibr  my  take.  When  all  hope  was  at  an  end,  Mr. 
Otis  oheyed,  and  for  nearly  five  years  fcor  Gaston  Dantree 
has  been  the  ghost  of  Bracken  Hollow.  As  a  rule  he  is  quiet 
and  harmless,  but  there  are  times  when  his  cries  are  terrible, 
when  he  tries  to  escape  from  his  room.  He  has  to  be  watched 
anceasingly.  All  these  years  I  remained  in  the  New  World  7 
worked  hard  in  my  profession,  and  rose.  I  made  money  and  I 
hoarded  it  like  a  miser.  Day  and  night,  stronger  and  stronger 
with  each  year  grew  the  determination  to  return,  to  keep  my 
vow.  I  tell  you  I  believe  there  were  times  when  I  was  insane 
on  this  subject.  Death  alone  could  have  held  me  back.  ] 
waited  patiently  while  burning  with  impatience  ;  1  worked  ;  I 
hoarded,  and  at  last  my  day  came.  I  returned  to  England  ;  I 
made  my  way  into  the  family  of  Sir  Peter  Dangerheld  ;  my  re 
vcnge  had  begun. 

"That,  as  you  know,  is  not  many  weeks  ago.  It  was  a  lo» 
ing  game  from  the  first — I  was  playing  to  lose.  I  knew  my  se- 
cret could  not  remain  undiscovered,  but  I  dared  all.  Fate  had 
taken  ray  part  in  one  way.  I  had  a  double  motive  in  returning 
— one,  my  vengeance  on  him  ;  the  other,  to  discover  my  par 
entage.  I  had  a  clue  ;  and  strange  to  say,  in  working  out  one 
I  was  working  out  the  other.  You  know  what  followed — 1 
played  ghost — I^ord  Rnysland  was  right — and  terrified  the 
master  of  Scarswood  as  I  think  he  was  never  terrified  before 
I  paid  midnight  visits  to  Bracken  Hollow  ;  I  dared  not  go  in 
the  daytime.  You  remember  all  about  that,  no  doubt.  There 
w^as  an  unused  entrance  by  which  I  came  in  and  out.  Lady 
Dangerfield  tyrannized  over  and  insulted  me  from  the  first ;  I 
have  rewarded  her^  T  think.  And  I  have  personated  Gaston 
Dajitree,  and  won  Sir  Peter's  idolized  gold.  Why  I  perso- 
nated Dantree  I  hardly  know.  Sir  Peter  was  too  blind  to  recog 
ni;ze  me,  and  the  whim  seized  me.  How  long  1  might  have 
gone  on,  how  it  would  have  ended  but  for  your  recognition  ol 
me — your  suspicion  and  discoveries,  I  don't  know.  I  owe  yon 
no  grudge  ;  you  were  doing  your  duty,  and  I  honor  you  for  it 
For  Sir  Arthur,  you  need  not  hav^  been  so  much  afraid ;  it  was 
a  triumph  to  take  him  from  Lady  Cecil — to  anger  Lady  Dan 
gcrfield ;  but  bad  as  I  am,  \  don't  think  I  ever  was  base 
enough  to  marry  him,  even  if  he  had  asked  nr>e.  He  had  never 
wronged  me,  and  I  only  waged  war  with  those  who  did." 

Vou  waged  war  with  I^y  Cecil  Clive,  in  caking  her  lovei 
^rom  her,  and  she  certainly  nevei  wronged  you.  She  watymu 
'Vi<*nd  thrmiKh  aU*'* 


HUNTED    DOWN 


50$ 


an  end,  Mr 

ton  Dantrce 

le  he  is  quiet 

are  terrible, 

o  be  watched 

New  World  T 

money  and  I 

and  strongei 

,  to  keep  my 

I  was  insane 

me  back.     1 

I  worked ;  I 

0  England  ;  I 
rfield  ;  my  re 

It  was  a  lo> 

1  knew  my  so- 
dl.  Fate  had 
^re  in  returning 
;over  my  par 
irking  out  one 
,t  followed — 1 

terrified  the 
;rrified  before 
ared  not  go  in 
doubt.  There 
[id  out.  Lady 
im  the  first ;  I 
nated  Gaston 
Why  I  perso- 

►lind  to  rcGOg 

1  might  have 
recognition  of 
w,  I  owe  you 
nor  you  for  it 

afraid ;  it  was 

er  Lady  Dan 
|ver  was  base 

He  had  never 

lo  did." 

ing  fecr  U>vei 

She  vaiyo«u 


The  hard  look  came  over  her   far<^  once  more,  a  hard  light 

ift  ker  larg/.  e>es. 

"Was  she?  In  your  eyes,  of  course,  Lady  Cecil  can  do  n« 
eviL  But  what  if  I  tol<J  you  she  had  done  me  the  deepest^  the 
deadliest  wrong  of  all  ?" 

He  looked  at  htsr  in  surprise. 

*^  7  don't  understand,"  he  said,  a  little  coldly.  "  I  believ« 
f  Jidy  Cecil  to  be  incapable  of  willfully  wronging  any  one.  And 
iie  always  spoke  gently  of  you." 

She  leaned  her  forehead  on  her  hands,  and  pushed  back  her 
^air  with  a  long,  tired  sigh. 

'  "  What  a  mockery,  what  a  satire  it  all  is — the  world  and  the 
people  in  it  \  We  are  all  sinners,  but  I  wonder  what  1  have 
lone,  that  my  life  should  be  so  accursed  !  Redmond  O'Don- 
nell,  this  morning  I  felt  almost  happy — a  fierce,  triumphal  sort 
jf  happiness — I  had  fought  a  long,  bitter  battle,  but  the  victory 
was  with  me  at  last  Now,  if  1  could  lie  down  here  and  dir 
I  should  ask  no  greater  boon.  My  life  has  been  from  first  to 
last  a  dreary,  miserable  failure.  Oh,  (iod  !  I  want  to  do 
right.  My  life  has  been  bitter,  bitter,  bitter,  and  I  feel  as 
though  I  were  steeped  in  crime  to  the  lips.  If  I  could  only 
die  and  end  it  all  1  But  death  passes  the  guilty  and  miserable 
by,  and  takes  the  happy  and  the  good." 

Her  folded  anns  were  lying  on  the  table,  her  head  fell  for- 
ward on  them  as  though  she  never  carec'.  to  lift  it  again.  From 
first  to  last  she  had  been  a  creature  of  impulse,  swayed  by  a 
passionate,  undisciplined  heart — a  ship  adrift  on  a  dark  sea, 
without  rudder  or  compass. 

"There  have  been  days  in  my  life — in  the  years  that  are 
gone — ay,  in  the  weeks  that  I  have  spent  yonder  at  Scarswood 
— when  i  have  held  the  laudanum  in  my  hand,  to  tny  lips,  that 
vould  have  ended  it  all.  But  I  did  not  dare  ilie—  such  wretches 
It  I  don't.  It  was  not  death  I  feared — but  wfiat  comts  after. 
Captain  O'Donnell,"  she  lifted  her  haggard  eyes  and  looked  at 
him,  and  to  the  la.st  day  of  his  life  the  hopeless  despair  of  that 
5»ce-  the  hopeless  pathos  of  that  voice  haunted  him,  "what 
must  yoa  ihirik  of  me  ?  What  a  lost,  degraded  creature  I  must 
be  in  your  sight" 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  a  comparsioi;  «urh  as  he  had 
oevei  felt  for  any  human  being  before  stirring  his  heart. 

"What  am  I  that  1  should  judge?  .And  if  i  t})ought  s  >, 
irould  I  ask  you  to  be  the  companion,  the  sisJer  of  my  sister  } 
there  t5  ■»9thing  bat  pity  for  you  in   i»'v  W«»Art-  -nothing       Giv<j 


;  i 


lit  'j 


I  \\ 


■ 


504 


itVsTEi>  nowht 


li*  I    } 


i  ?■ 


(;p  this  v^rk  and  dan^rous  life,  and  be  true  to  yourself-  to  iki 
noble  nature  Heaven  has  given  you,  once  more." 

She  rose  up — her  hand  still  in  his,  a  sort  of  inspiration  skin 
iiif  in  her  face. 

"  I  will  I "  she  answered.  "  You — wliom  I  thought  ray 
enemy,  shall  save  me.  I  renounce  it — the  plotting — the  evil — 
the  revenge.  And  for  your  sake — for  the  love  you  bear  her,  I 
will  spare  her," 

He  looked  at  her  in  mute  inquiry.  She  smiled,  drew  awa| 
her  hands,  and  resumed  her  seat 

"  You  do  not  understand.  See  here,  Captain  O'  Donncll,  I 
told  you,  did  1  not,  my  second  object  in  returning  to  England 
was  to  discover  my  parentage  ?     Well,  I  have  discovered  it." 

"  You  have  ! "  he  cried,  breathlessly. 

^'  I  have  discovered  it.  My  father  lives,  and  the  daughter 
of  my  ntirse  occupies  my  place  in  his  heart,  the  narrie  I  should 
bear.  It  is  a  very  old  story — changed  at  nurse — and  that  nurse 
has  confessed  all." 

"  You  have  done  this.  Then  I  congratulate  you  indeed  ! 
You  will  go  to  your  father  at  once,  of  course  !  No  one,  believe 
me,  can  rejoice  at  this  more  sincerely  than  I." 

"  You  mistake.  I  will  never  go.  This  morning  I  had  in- 
tended— but  that  is  all  past  now.  If  I  renounce  my  revenge 
and  wrong-doing  in  one  Way,  I  renounce  it  in  all.  I  never 
mderstood  half  measures." 

"  But  there  is  wrong-doing  here — it  is  right — it  is  your  duty 
to  go." 

'*  Captain  ODonnell,  don't  you  see  another  is  in  my  place  ? 
My  going  would  bring  shame,  and  disgrace,  and  misery  upon 
her.  My  father  is  a  very  proud  man — would  it  add  to  his  pridt 
<>r  happiness  to  acknowledge  such  a  daughter  as  1  ?  " 

'*  All  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  the  chasseur  answered 
with  his  stubborn  sense  of  right  and  wrong.  '^  Your  duty  is  tt 
go  to  your  father,  and  tell  him  the  truth  at  any  cost  to  his  pnd<? 
or  yours." 

She  smiled. 

"  I  wonder  if  this  would  be  your  advice  if — if,  for  exampu 
only — my  father  were  the  Earl  of  Ruysland.  (1  name  him,  yo«j 
understand,  as  the  first  I  think  of)  Suppose  I  went  to  hiro 
And  said,  *  My  lord,  I,  Kathcrine  Dangerfield — Helen  Hem 
castle — Gaston  Dantree — ai:y  alias  you  please — am  yous 
daughter;  she  whom  you  call  Lady  Cecil  Clive  is  but  the 
daughter  9i  your  fonaer  servant,  my  nurs*.     She  hated  yotv 


HVNTRD   DOWN. 


507 


rielf  -  to  tk« 

)iration  skin 

thought  my 
5 — the  evil— 
1  bear  her,  1 

\  drew  awa) 

O'Donnell,  r 
r  to  England 
;overed  it." 

the  daughtei 
ime  I  should 
nd  that  nurse 

you  indeed  ! 
3  one,  believe 

ing  I  had  in- 
s  my  revenge 
all.     I  never 

is  youi  duty 

in  my  place  ? 

misery  upo?\ 
d  to  his  pride 

?" 

ur  answeied. 
jur  duty  is  tt 
t  to  his  pnd<? 


',  for  exampti 
ame  him,  you 
went  to  hiro 
Helen  Hem 
e — am  yous 
c  is  but  the 
hated  yofv 


Jnul  wife,  my  mother,  and  when  you  came  to  claim  youi  child 
ihe  gave  you  hers.'  Suppose  I  said  this — suppv,se  I  could 
prove  it— -what  then  ?  Would  the  earl  clasp  me  to  his  bosom 
m  a  gush  of  parental  love  ?  Would  Lady  Cecil  get  down  from 
her  pedestal  of  birth  and  rank  and  let  me  mount  ?  Think  0^ 
Afc  earl's  shame  and  pain — her  suffering — Sir  Arthur  Tregenna** 
i;k%i  filiation  ;  think  how  much  happiness  I,  the  usurper,  enjojr. 
Sling  the  case  home,  and  tell  me  still,  if  you  can — to  go." 

"  I  tell  you  still  to  go.  Right  is  right.  Though  the  Earl  o< 
R-uysiand  were  your  father,,  though  Lady  Cecil  had  usurped  your 
place,  1  should  still  say,  go — tell  the  truth,  be  the  cost  what  it 
inay." 

"  You,  who  love  Lady  Cecil,  give  me  this  advice  ?  Captaiu 
O'Donnell,  you  don't  love  her." 

"  I  love  her  so  well  that  J  leave  her ;  I  love  her  so  well  thai 
if  the  thing  you  speak  of  v^ere  possible,  1  would  he  the  first  to 
go  and  tell  her.  Once  again — in  the  face  of  all  that  may  fol- 
low— I  repeat,  go  I  Tell  the  truth,  take  the  place  and  name 
that  are  yours,  and  let  me  help  you  if  I  can." 

But  still  she  sat  keeping  th&t  strange,  wistful,  searching  gaze 
6vi  his  face. 

"  You  love  her  so  well  that  you  leave  her,"  she  repeated, 
dreamily;  "you  leave  her  because  she  is  an  earl's  daughter 
>d  you  think  above  you.     If  you  knew  her  to  be  poor — poo 
*nd  low  born — " 

"  I  would  still  leave  her.  It  would  make  no  difference. 
Poor  or  rich,  gentle  or  simple,  who  am  1  that  I  should  marry  a 
wife  ?  My  soldier's  life  in  camp  and  desert  does  well  enough 
for  me.  How  would  1  do,  think  you,  for  one  brought  up  a* 
Lady  Cecil  Clive  has  been  ?  I  can  rough  it  well  enough — th"* 
life  suits  me ;  but  I  shall  never  care  to  see  my  wife  rough  it 
j-lso.  Let  UF  pass  all  that — I  don't  care  to  talk  of  myself. 
Lady  Cecil  Clive  is  not  for  me — any  more  tlian  one  of  hei 
Majesty's  daughters.     Let  us  speak  only  of  you." 

She  rose  up  wiLli  a  strange,  unfathomable  smile,  crossed  the 
riK)m  without  a  word,,  lit  a  candle  and  placed  it  on  the  tabic 
before  him.  Ke  watched  her  in  silent  surprise.  She  drew  from 
ker  pocket  a  folded  paper,  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"  You  have  done  greater  service  than  ycni  dream  o(  in  com- 
ing here,"  sne  said.  "  \i^  one  last  favor.  1  want  this  pa|>ej 
destroyed-  I  have  a  whimsical  fancy  to  sec  you  do  it-  Ho^ 
it  to  tiic  candle  and  lei  it  burn." 

He   to<ik  it  doubi^ly.      He  read  th«e  superscripti^i — "  Om 


V* 


HUKTRD    DOWN 


ma 


'V-    J 


festhm  of  H^rrUt  JlarmsHy'  and  hesitated.      **  1  dt>n  i  knot*  ^- 
why  should  1  ?     iVhat  is  this  ?  " 

**  Nothing  tliat  concerns  any  one  on  earth  but  myself.  Yo» 
irill  be  doing  a  good  deed,  I  believe,  in  destroying  it.  Lftt  n;* 
see  you  bum  it.  /can  do  it,  of  course  ;  but  as  I  said,  I  havs 
a  fancy  that  yours  should  be  the  hand  to  destroy  it.  Biun  It, 
Captain  O'Donnell," 

Still  wondering — still  doubting — he  obeyed.  Held  the  papet 
j»  the  flame  of  the  candle  until  it  dropped  in  a  charred  clouil 
Km  the  table.  Then  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  brave 
bright  smile. 

*•*■  Once  more  I  thank  you.  You  have  done  me  a  great  ser- 
vice. You  have  saved  me  from  myself.  When  do  you  and 
your  sister  leave  ?  " 

*'  To-day  ;  but  if  I  can  aid  you  in  any  way — if  I  can  take 
f*jM  to  your  father — " 

"  You  are  ready  to  do  it  I  know ;  but  I  have  not  quite  made 
Qp  my  mind  about  that  yet.  It  is  not  a  thin^  to  be  done  in  a 
htiirry.  Give  me  a  few  hours.  Come  back  if  you  will  before 
y<\>u  depart,  and  if  you  have  any  influence  with  the  Earl  of 
Ruysland,  don't  let  him  send  that  search-warrant  to-day.  Let 
\\%  say  good-by,  and  part  for  the  present." 

He  stood  and  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  He  felt  vaguely 
tnat  never  had  he  been  farther  from  understanding  her  than  at 
this  moment 

"  I  will  come,"  he  said,  *'  and  I  hope — I  trust  by  that  time 
you  will  have  made  up  your  mind  to  return  to  your  father,  and 
-^  4f  Rose  wishes  it — may  I  bring  her  to  see  him  t " 

"  Certainly — he  will  not  know  her — poor  fellow.  He  knows 
nobody.     Farewell,  Redmond  O'Donnell,- -my  friend." 

There  was  a  lingering  tenderness  in  her  voice,  in  her  eyes,, 
that  might  have  told  him  her  secret.    But  men  are  totally  blin4J! 
ometimes.     He  saw  nothing.     He  grasped  her  hand.     **  No( 
are  well,"  he  said  :  **  au  revoir." 

She  went  with  him  to  the  door.  She  watched  him  with  wist 
'-^l  eyes  out  of  sight. 

**  f  arcwdll,"  she  said,  softly ;  "  larewell  forever.     If  Heniy 
Ottfl  bad  b«sn  to  bm  vHi^*  you  are,  six  years  ago  ]  had 
iaTe4." 


m  with  wist 


TmAT  MIGHT  5^^ 


CHAPTER  XXVll. 

THAT  NIGHT. 

|HKKE  hours  later,  and  Redmond  and  Rost  (>'Donp.«9 
ha  1  quitted  Scarswood  Park  forever.  The  last  fkre 
wells  had  been  said — to  Lady  Dangerfield,  weepini 
feebly,  not  so  much  at  their  loss  as  over  the  gener^ 
distress  and  misery  that  T;as  falling  upon  the  place,  the  dread 
of  her  OMU  fortune.  To  Lady  Cecil,  cold,  and  white,  and  still, 
giving  her  paiting  kiss  to  the  sister — her  parting  hand-clasp 
and  look  to  the  brother.  "  Farewell  forever,  my  love — my  love 
— who  loved  me  once,"  that  long,  wistful,  hopeless  glance  said. 
To  l^ord  Ruysland,  politely  affable  and  full  of  regrets  to  the 
Ust. 

"Confound  Mrs.  Everleigh  and  her  masquerade  ball,  and 
doubly,  trebly  confound  Miss  Herncastle  for  persuading  Ginevra 
to  go.  The  only  consolation  is  we'll  have  her  on  the  hip  before 
night  falls." 

"And  even  that  consolation  I  must  ask  your  lordship  to 
forego,"  O'Donnell  sail,  with  a  half  smile.  "/  have  been  *o 
see  Miss  Herncastle.  And  there  is  no  need  of  that  searc! 
warrant,  ray  lord.  1  believe  you  are  at  liberty  to  enter  and  gT 
through  Bracken  Holl<»w  as  freely  as  you  please — if  you  onl? 
wait  until  to-morrow  " 

"  My  good  fellow,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?  IVau 
with  such  an  arch-traitress  as  tliat !  Wait !  give  her  time  '•(? 
make  her  escape,  and  carry  off  her  victim — her  prisoner,  wK 
ever  it  may  be,  and  start  life  luxuriously  in  London  or  Paris, 
under  a  new  atias^  and  with  poor  Sir  Peter's  money.  My  dca? 
O'Donnell,  you're  a  sensible  fellow  enough  in  the  main,  buv 
don't  you  think  this  last  suggestion  of  yours  betrays  slight 
symptoms  of  softening  of  the  brain  ?  " 

"  My  lord — no  You  see  I  know  Miss  Herncastle' s  story 
Mid  you  don't — that  makes  the  difference." 

Gad ! "  his  lordship  responded,  "  I  am  not  sure  that  I  car* 
to  know  any  more  than  I  do.  If  her  previous  history  be  is; 
keeping  with  its  sequel  here,  it  must  be  an  edifying  auK.'bia 
graphy.     Ii  her  name  Herncastle,  or  what  ?  " 

*•  Her  name  is  not  Herncastle.  I  do  not  know  what  it  «:; 
(  believe  she  doci  not  know  herself.  My  lord,  she  is  greatli 
(o  be  pitied  ;    she  has  fone  wrong,  but  circumstanre^  hi-« 


1 1- 

u 


)10 


TRAr  A/IG/tT. 


J     i 


jil  J: 


iriv'^n  her  ^rrong.  The  bitter  cynic  who  dchnch  viruit  is  ooi*. 
the  «oscnce  of  temptation  was  right,  as  rynirs  very  generall) 
arf^     (n  her  place  I  believe  I  would  have  done  as  she  has  done 

ay,  '.orse.  Life  has  dealt  hardly  with  her — h^rdly — hardly 
/  tell  you  so  ;  and  to  lean  too  greatly  to  the  side  of  pity  foi 
iii<r  erring  is  not  my  weakness.  Gaston  Dantree  is  tl\e  ghasi 
am^  prisoner  of  Bracken  Hollow.  She  has  confessed ;  but  ^ 
believe  he  is  well  and  kindly  treated  ;  and  if,  instead  of  cariTif 
for  him  there,  she  had  left  him  to  die  like  a  dog  in  a  ditch,  sht 
would  only  have  given  him  his  deserts.  She  has  taken  (fairly 
or  unfairly,  as  you  will — I  don't  know)  a  large  sum  of  mone) 
from  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield ;  but  I  say  there  too  she  has  seived 
him  right.  In  her  place  I  would  have  taken  every  farthing  if  1 
could.  She  has  done  wrong  in  the  matter  of  the  ball,  but  e\'ep 
^hen.  treated  as  Lady  Dangerfield  dtily  treated  her,  I  don't  say 
I  would  not  have  done  the  same.  From  first  to  last  I  maintain 
Miss  Herncastle  has  been  more  sinned  against  than  sinning, 
and  so  your  lordship  would  acknowledge  if  you  knew  all." 

His  eyes  were  flashing,  his  dark  face  flushed  with  an  earnest- 
ness that  rarely  broke  through  the  indolent  calm  of  long  hsbit 
and  training.     His  lordship  stood  and  stared  at  him  aghast. 

**  Good  Heaven  1 "  he  said,  '*  what  rhodomontade  is  this  i 
Is  the  woman  a  witch  ?  and  have  you  fallen  under  her  spells  at 
last  ?  And  I  would  acknowledge  all  this  if  I  knew  all.  Then, 
my  dear  fellow,  in  the  name  of  common-sense  tell  me  all,  for 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  ma!  e  top  or  tail  of  this.  Who,  in 
Heaven's  name,  is  this  greatly  wronged — much-to-be-pitied 
Miss  Herncastle?" 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you — and  yet  it  is  such  a  mar- 
velous story — ^" 

**  Egad  I  I  know  thai  beforehand  ;  everything  connecle^ 
with  this  extraordinary  young  woman  is  marvelous.  Whatever 
it  is,  it  cannot  be  much  more  marvelous  than  what  has  gone 
l)cfore." 

"  My  lord,"  O'Donnell  said,  hastily,  "  I  see  my  sister  waiting, 
and  I  have  no  time  to  spare.  Here  is  a  proposal :  <lon't  go 
near  Bracken  Hollow  until  to  morrow,  until  you  have  heard 
from  me.  Before  I  leave  Castleford  I  will  find  rime  to  write 
you  the  whole  thing ;  I  really  don't  care  to  tell  it,  and  whes 
you  have  read  her  story,  I  believe  I  only  do  /ou  justice  in  say 
ing  you  will  let  Miss  Herncastle  alone.  I  have  reason  to 
think  she  will  leave  Castleford  to-diay  with  my  sister  and  me — 
that  she  will  ahare  Rose's  asylum  in  Franre,  and  that  all  6oi 


f* 


TBAT  NIGBT 


JI^ 


?vi]  doings  are  at  an  end.    To-nj^ht  you  shall  have  my  letter-^ 
to  iiu»vow  do  as  you  please.     Once  more,  my  lord,  farewell'* 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  sprang  down  the  steps  to  where  Roac 
sat  in  the  basket-carriage  awaiting  him.  Once  he  glanced 
^ack--he  half  smiled  to  see  his  lordship  standing  petrified 
where  he  haii  left  hiin.  He  glanced  up  at  a  particular  window. 
A  face,  that  dead  and  in  its  colhn  would  never  look  whitei; 
aratched  him  there.  He  waved  his  hand — the  ponies  flung  up 
Iheir  heads  and  dashed  down  the  avenue  ;  in  a  moment  Sea:  % 
vfood  lay  behind  them  like  a  place  in  a  dream. 

There  was  not  one  word  spoken  all  the  way.  Once  Rose, 
ibout  to  speak,  had  glanced  at  her  brother's  face,  and  the 
ivords  died  on  his  lips.  Did  he  love  Lady  Cecil  after  all — hail 
he  loved  her  vainly  for  years  ? 

They  went  to  the  Silver  Rose.  Miss  O'Donnell  had  her 
former  room,  and  there,  wrenching  himself  from  the  bitterness 
and  pain  of  his  own  loss,  he  told  her  the  story  of  Gaston  Dan- 
iree. 

"  If  you  ?/ould  like  to  see  him,  how  is  your  time,"  he  said. 
*'  I  am  going  to  Bracken  Hollow.     You  can  come  if  you  like." 

She  listened  in  pale  amaze,  shrinking  and  trembling  as  she 
heard.  An  idiot  for  life  I  At  the  horror  of  that  fate  all  her 
wrongs  paled  into  insignificance — what  awful  retribution  was 
here  ?  She  rose  up  ashen  gray  with  pity  and  horror,  but  tear« 
less  and  quiet. 

* '  I  will  go,"  she  answered. 

He  procured  a  fly,  and  they  startcct  kt  once.     Again  it  was  a 
very  silent  drive.     Redmond  O'Donnell  forced  h:i  thoughts 
from  his  ov/n  troubles  ;  brooding  on  hopeless  loss  of  any  kind 
was  not  his  nature,  and  thought  of  Katherine.     He  almost  won 
dered  at  himself  at  the  pity  he  felt  for  her — at  the  sort  of  ad 
miration  and  affection  she  had  inspired  him  with.     How  bravp 
ifee  was,  how  resolute,  how  patient ;  «'hat  wonderful  self-corn 
j£S.nd  was  hers.     What  elements  for  a  noble  and  beautiful  life 
warped  and  gone  wrong.     But  it  was  not  yet  too  late  ;  the 
courage,  the  generosity,  the  nobility  within  her  would  work  foe 
joo"  from  henceforth.     He  would  take  her  to  France,  her  hf?t- 
ter  natu:  e  would  assert  itself.     She  would  one  day  become  on* 
of  tliese  exceptionally  great  women  whom  the  world  delight* 
to  honor.     She — he  paused.     They  had  drawn  up  at  the  gate 
and  standing  there  with  folded  amis,  with  rigidly  compresses! 
lips,  with  eye»  that  looked  like  gleaming  steel,  stood  Heni| 
Otis. 


\  ' 


■    I 


5ia 


TMAT  NliiHT. 


%    ^ 


w  \\ 


!! 


I  1i 


The  Algerian  soldier  knevv  him  at  on<ct,  and  knew  ttie  iu 
itant  he  saw  him  something  had  gone  wrong.     At.  he  advanced 
with  his  sister  Mr.  Otis  flung  open  the  %?kX*'^  rook  ofif  his  hat  to 
Ihe  sister,  and  abruptly  addressed  the  brother. 

'*  I  have  the  honor  of  speaking  to  Captain  Rednion<!i  O'Doa 
nell?" 

"  I  am  Captain  O'Donnell,  Mr.  Otis,"  was  the  calm  answei. 
*'  I  come  here  with  my  sister  by  Miss  iicrncastle'si)emiission. 

•'  1  inferred  that.     This  is  your  second  visit  to-day  ?  " 

"  My  second  visit,"  O'Donnell  added,  secretly  wondering 
why  the  man  should  assume  that  belligerent  attitude  and  an^y 
tone.  "  I  trust  Miss  Hemcastle  is  here  ?  1  came,  expecting 
to  meet  her." 

*•  Miss  Hemcastle  is  nti here  I"  Otis  replied,  his  eyes  glanc- 
ing their  irate  steely  fire ;  "  she  baa  gone." 

•'Cone!" 

'•  Cone — fled — run  away.  That  would  not  surjmse  me  ;  but 
this  does."  He  struck  angrily  an  ojyen  letter  he  held.  "  Captain 
O'Donnell,  what  have  you  been  saying  to  her — what  influence 
i\o  you  possess  over  her  that  she  fiiould  resign  the  triumph  of  her 
life,  in  the  hour  of  its  fulfillment,  for  you  ?  By  what  right  do 
you  |)resume  to  come  here,  and  meddle  with  what  in  no  way 
<:oncerns  you  ?  " 

Redmond  O'Donnell  stood  and  looked  at  him,  his  straight 
black  brows  contracting,  his  voice  sinking  to  a  tone  ominously 
!ow  and  calm. 

''  Rose,"  he  said,  "  step  in  here  and  wait  until  I  rejoin  you." 
She  obeyed  with  a  startled  look.  "  Now  then,  Mr.  Otis,  let  us 
understand  one  another  ;  1  don't  comprehend  one  word  you 
aie  saying,  but  I  do  coraprenend  that  you  have  taken  a  mosi 
disagreeable  tone.  Be  kind  enough  to  change  it  to  one  a  little 
Jess  aggressive,  and  to  make  your  meaning  a  little  more  clear." 

"You  don't  understand?"  Otis  repeated,  still  with  snp 
pressed  anger.  "  Have  you  not  been  the  one  to  counsel  he: 
to  renounce  the  aim  of  her  life,  to  resign  her  birthright  because 
forsooth,  the  woman  who  has  usurped  it  is  your  friend  ?  Havf, 
you  not  been  the  one  to  urge  this  flight — to  compel  this  renun 
ciation  ?  " 

*♦  My  good  fellow,"  O'Donnell  cried  impatiently,  "  if  you  in„ 
tend  to  talk  (rreek,  talk  it,  but  don't  exprrt  me  to  understand 
And  1  never  was  clever  at  guessing  riddles.  If  Miss  Hernca^ait 
has  run  away,  I  am  sincerely  sorry  to  hear  it — it  is  news  to  me 
Vl^*at  you  mean  about  renouncini;  her  birthright  and  all  ihat, 


IHAT  mCNT. 


513 


•It 


V0U  may  know — 1  don't.  I  urged  her  to  ^\\c  wy  the  life  of  false- 
hood and  deception  the  han  been  leading  lately  for  one  mora 
worthy  of  her,  and   i  understood  her  to  f^ay  Khe  would.     Tbt 
influence  I  possess  over  her  is  only  the  influence  <i.\\y  tiue  friend 
might  possess.     F'arther  than  that,  if  you  want  nie  to  knov 
whai  you  are  talking  about,  you  will  be  kind  enough  toexpUin." 
And  Heniy  Otis,  looking  into  tie  dark,  gravfly  haughty  fac« 
koew  that  he  spoke  the  truth.     Me  handed  him  the  letter. 
"  It  is  froui  her,"  he  said,  •'  to  ine.     Read  it" 
O'Donnell  obeyed.     It  bore  date  that  day,  and  was  lignifi 
t  \ntly  brief. 

'  Henry— MY  Brothe*  ;  Yon  »ll]be«rprii»d- -pained,  angered,  it  maj 
l>e  -whok  I  tell  you  I  am  going,  aitd  coming  l>ack  no  more.  I  give  it  all  up- 
all  U»e  piv^ttiiig,  the  weary,  wicke<l,  endless  scheminj»  that  brought  revenge 
perhkp%,  but  never  happiness.  And  the  c^nfttsion  ts  burned  I  They  sHaU 
never  know— neither  my  father,  nor  she  who  nas  t&ken  my  place  unwittingly, 
t^all  ever  W  rendered  niisei able  by  the  truth.  I  can  rememlier  now  thai 
she  at  least  was  evtr  gentle  and  sweet  to  me.  If  I  told  them  to-morrow, 
1  could  not,  would  not  take  her  place  ;  my  father  would  never  care  for  m« 
— would  look  upon  me  as  a  shxme  and  disgrace.  I^et  it  go  with  all  thi 
rest.  (Captain  O'  Donnell  has  proven  himself  my  friend  ;  for  hit  sake  I  ro 
nonnce  my  cherished  vtngeaince.  Let  the  niiscrable  woman  we  have  lufe<' 
liere  go.  Care  for  poor  Gaston  as  you  have  always  cared.  Do  not  follow 
me ;  when  happier  vky."*  come  I  will  go  to  you.  Do  not  fear  for  ^ne ) 
1  will  not  return  to  tKe  stv{;e  ;  1  shall  UTe  honestly  and  uprightly  for  th* 
time  thiit  is  to  come,  (ivxi  helping  me.  Sir  Peter  Danyerfield's  monc)  is  in 
Hannah's  keeping  ;  restore  it  to  him ;  1  would  die  sooner  than  use  it.  Tell 
Captain  O'Donnell  that  wiiilel  thaak  him— thank  him  with  all  my  1  e«rt  and 
soul  -I  still  cannot  go  with  him.  For  my  own  sake  I  cannot.  He  has 
l>een  my  salvation ;  to  my  dyix^g  day  his  nsemory  and  yours  wil^  be  the 
dcaiest  in  mv  heart,  Dear  HCIU7,  my  best  friend,  my  dcares^  brother, 
farewell !  I  have  been  a  trouble,  a  distress  to  you,  from  the  first ;  this  laitt 
flight  will  trouble  and  distress  you  most  of  all }  but  it  is  for  tlie  best— tk* 
rest  never  were. — Farewell  I  Katuzrins." 

Redmond  O'Donnell  looked  up  from  the  lelici  with  a  han 
of  pale  wonder. 

"  What  does  she  mean  }  **  he  a.^ked.  **  ^  Dare  not  come  witk 
uie  for  her  own  sake  1 '     What  folly  is  this  ?  " 

Henry  Otis  returned  his  glance  gloomily  enough,  fie  un- 
derstood, if  O'Donnell  did  not. 

^'  \Vho  can  comprehend  a  woman — least  of  all  snch  a  woman 
as  Katherine  Dangerfield?  But  for  once  she  shall  be  dis- 
obeyed. For  six  years  I  have  obeyed  her  in  gocxi  and  in  eiril ; 
now  1  refuse  to  obey  longer.  The  truth  shall  be  told — yea,  \k} 
Heaven  1 — let  their  prid<"  K>:jTer  3s  it  m?iv.     'I'hev  shall  kno^ 


Ml 


:;  ll; 


1. 

"ij. 


1  ! 


\\ 


i.»  11 


$H 


THAT  NIGHT 


that  the  girl  i^n  whom  they  trampled  is  of  their  blood !     He, 
mth    '^.11  his  dignity  and  mightiness^  shall    find    she  is  hk 

daughter ! " 

"Who?"  CDonncU  asked,  with  a  pierceing  glance.  But 
Henry  Otis  (iioodily  drew  badr. 

"Yonder  is  Hannah — if  you  want  to  see  the  miserablo 
wretch  hidden  for  five  years  at  Bracken  Hollow,  you  had  better 
|o.     I  shall  tell  him,  not  you." 

His  angry  jealousy  flashed  out  in  every  look,  in  every  word. 
He  hated  this  man — this  dark,  dashing,  Irish  soldier— -with 
his  magnifi^nt  stature,  his  handsome,  dusk  face.  Katherine 
loved  him  !  Was  it  part  of  her  wretched  destiny  always  to 
love  men  utterly  indifferent  to  her,  while  he — all  his  life  it 
seemed  to  him  he  had  lain  his  heart  at  her  feet,  and  it  had  been 
less  to  her  than  the  ground  she  trod. 

He  turned  away  from  him  in  a  passion  of  wrath  against  her^ 
against  the  tall,  haughty,  amazed  chasseur,  against  himself  i.nd 
his  infatuation,  and  dashed  into  the  belt  of  gloomy  woodland 
that  shut  in  the  gloomy  house. 

"  I'll  tell  at  least !  "  he  thought,  savagely.  "I'll  humble  the 
Earl  of  Rnysland  ;  and  for  her — let  her  resent  it  if  she  will.  I 
h^ve  been  her  puppet  long  enough.  While  she  cared  for  no 
o*  ic  more,  I  hoped  against  hope,  but  new  that  she  has  fallen  in 
Ic've  with  this  Irish  free-lance,  let  her  go.  My  slavery  end? 
from  to-day." 

O'Donnell  looked  after  him,  angry  in  his  turn — then  glancing 
At  his  watch  and  seeing  that  time  was  flying,  he  rejoined  his  sis- 
ter waiting  anxiously  in  the  porch. 

"  Who  is  that  man,  Redmond  ?  "  she  asked,  timidly — "  were 
you  quarrelling  ?     How  angry  he  looked  I " 

"  /  was  not  quarrelling,"  he  answered,  shoitly.  "Rose,  ure 
\vft  no  time  to  spare.  See  this  man  if  you  will,  and  let  us  go. 
t  wa^it  to  catch  the  five  o'clock  train." 

Old  Hannah  was  in  waiting — she  too  looked  gloomy  and  for- 
bidding. Her  nursling  had  fled — in  some  way  this  young 
man  had  to  do  with  it,  and  Hannah  resented  it  accordingly.  He 
saw  it  and  asked  no  questions — he  felt  no  inclination  to  subject 
hiaiself  to  further  rebuffs.  Let  them  all  go — he  did  not  under- 
stand them — he  washed  hi?  hands  from  henceforth  of  the  whole 
iffair. 

Hannah  in  silence  led  the  way  up  a  dark,  spiral,  staircase  to 
an  upi[>er  roon.  She  csutioiialy  inserted  a  key  and  unlockod 
the  door< 


THAT  NIGHT. 


51S 


"  Make  no  noi»e,"  she  said  in  a  whisper  ;  ♦*  he's  asleep." 

She  softly  opened  the  door  and  led  the  way  in.  They  fol- 
lowed, Rose  clinging  to  her  brother's  arm — white,  tremblinf 
from  head  to  foot.  She  was  led  to  a  bed  ;  upon  it  a  figure  lay, 
asleep,  motionless.  A  hot  miat  was  before  her  eyes  ;  for  a  mo- 
snent  she  couhi  not  look  ;  then  it  cleared  away.  She  .^trove 
to  command  herself,  and  for  the  first  time  in  seven  years  Roet 
Marie  Dantrce  looked  upon  her  husband's  face. 

There  was  notning  revolting  or  terrible  in  the  sight.     As  h> 
lay  asleep  all  the  old  beauty  was  there — the  calm,  the  peac* 
One  arm  supported  his  head — he  was  neither  worn  nor  thin 
he  had  changed  very  little.     The  classic  profile  was  turned  t* 
ward  them — the  long,  black  lashes  swept  his  cheeks,  the  lips 
wer«  parted  in  something  like  a  smile,  the  glossy,  black,  curling 
hair  was  swept  off  the  forehead.     He  looked  beautiful  as  he 
lay  there  asleep.     And  over  Rose's  heart  the  old  love  surged 
—the  great  wrong  he  had  done  her  was  forgotten — she  only 
remembered  she  had  been  his  wife,  and  that  he  had  loved  her 
ance.     Her  face  worked — she  sank  on  her  knees. 

"  Gaston  1     Gaston  !  "  she  whispered,  groAving  ghastly. 

He  started  in  his  sleep — the  dark,  large  sunken  eyes  opened 
and  looked  at  her.  As  she  met  them  the  last  trace  of  life  left 
her  face — she  sank  backward — her  brother  caught  her  as  she 
fell. 

"  I  might  have  known  it  would  be  too  muo^.  for  her,"  he  said. 
*  1  shoulo  never  have  let  her  come." 

She  was  on  the  grass  outside  the  g-  te  when  she  recovered, 
'ler  brother  bathing  her  forehead  and  holding  her  in  his  arms. 
She  looked  up  into  his  eyes,  burst  into  a  sudden  passion  of 
crying,  and  hid  her  face  on  his  breast.  He  was  very  patient 
and  gentle  with  her — he  let  her  cry  in  peace.  Presently  h<; 
stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"  If  you  are  ready  we  will  go  now,  Rose,"  he  said.  "  Yot? 
maat  not  see  him  again.  It  can  do  no  good — his  case  is  hope 
lens — he  knows  no  one,  and  when  \it  is  disturbed  he  givei 
trouble,  the  old  woman  says.  Come,  Rose,  be  brave — It  is  hard 
on  you,  but  life  is  hard  on  all  of  us.  Since  we  must  bear  our 
Troubles,  let  us  at  least  bear  them  bravely." 

She  went  without  a  word.  She  drew  her  veil  over  her  facej 
and  cried  silently  behind  it.  They  reached  the  Silver  Rose ; 
Lanty  and  the  luggage  were  here.  The  luggage  was  ready 
for  the  railway,  but  Lanty  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The 
swind  of  voic(?"8  in  the  conrtvar*:!  hnw-vcr,  guided  his  master — 


ill: 


il 


$16 


THAT  tfiGHT. 


r*.:!     f 


hi 


T'     : 


I.     !■ 


Mr.  I.jJfertT's  melliflaoaB  Northern  accent  irag  not  to  bi 
n;i8taken. 

"  See  now — that  I  majrniver  sin  (God  pardin  me  for  swearin) 
— but  I'll  come  back  to  ye — an'  maybe  marry  ye — if  I  don'f 
nee  anybody  I  like  better.  Arrah  !  where's  the  go<x\  av*  crji»' 
and  screechin'  in  this  way  ?  Shure  me  own  heart's  broke  »• 
tirely — so  it  is.  An'  thin  ye  can  write  to  me  when  I'm  aiR^y^ 
an'  isn't  that  same  a  comfort  ?  Faith  i  it's  a  beautiful  hand  y% 
write — ^aquil  to  iver  a  schoolmaster  in  Ballynahaggart.  An'  ye'U 
dait  yer  letthers  in  this  way :  *■  Misther  Lanty  Lafferty,  in  care 
o'  the  Masther.  In  Fumn  parts.'  Arrah !  hould  yer  noise, 
an'  don't  be  fetchin  the  parish  down  on  us.  Far  or  near, 
amn't  I  ready  to  stick  to  ye,  Shusan,  through  thick  an'  thin  7 
/Vrrah>  is  it  doubtin'  me  ye  are  ?  See  now,  if  s  the  truth  I'm 
tellin';  that  I  may  go  to  my  grave  feet  foremost  if  it  isn't." 

Mr.  I^afferty  and  the  rosy-cheeked  barmaid  were  ensconced 
behind  a  tree,  Lanty  seated  on  the  pump,  Susan  dissolved  in 
tears — a  love-scene,  undoubtedly.  Susan' s  reply  was  inaudible, 
but  her  lover  might  be  heard  by  any  one  who  chose  to  listen. 

"  Why  don't  I  lave  him,  is  it  ?  Upon  me  conscience,  thin, 
Ji's  long  and  many's  the  day  ago  I'd  av  left  him  wid  his  sodger- 
in'  an'  his  thrampin'  if  I  cud  have  found  iver  a  dacent  Irish  boy 
to  thrust  him  wid.  But  there  it  was,  ye  see — av  a  bullet  from 
a  rifle,  or  a  poke  from  a  pike  cut  his  sodgering  short,  I  was  al- 
ways to  the  fore  to  close  the  corpse's  eyea,  an'  wake  him  com- 
fortably, and  see  that  he  had  a  headstone  over  him,  as  a  dacent 
O'Donnell  should.  But,  shure — (this  is  a  saycret,  mind) — hei 
ladyship,  good  luck  to  her !  has  him  now,  or  will  shortly ;  an' 
troth  if  he's  half  as  unaisy,  an'  half  as  throublesome  on  hei 
hands  as  he  is  on  mine,  if  s  hersilf  '11  be  sick  an'  sore  av  hei 
bargain.  An'  if  s  on  me  two  knees  I'd  go  to  ye  this  minute, 
me  darlin,  av  it  wasn't  owin  to  the  dampness  of  the  grass,  an' 
the  rheumatism  that  does  be  throublin'  me  in  the  small  av  n)e 
back,  an'  ax  ye  there-,  fomint  me,  av  ye'U  be  Misthress  Lafferty. 
And  faith  !  if  s  not  to  more  than  half  a  dozen  young  women  livin' 
I'd  say  the  Uke." 

"  Lanty !  I  say,  you  scoundrel,  do  you  want  to  be  lat«  } " 
called  the  voice  of  his  master.  "  Come  along  here— -there's 
not  a  minute  to  lose." 

'^Oh,  tare  an'  ages  1  Shure  there  he  is  himself  I  Give  «• 
•  kiss,  Shusan,  me  darlin'  av*  the  wurruld,  an'  long  life  to  ye  taSl 
I  come  back." 

There  was  the  very  audible  report  of  a  very  audible  embrace 


at 


[ble  embrace 


THAT  NIGHT. 


ttad  then  Mr.  I^AfTerty  in  great  haste  made  his  appcanuKc  i 
the  angle  of  the  building. 

"  Comtn',  sir — comin',  yer  honor.  Niver  fear  but  Til  be  ir 
time.     rU  be  at  the  station  below  in  a  pig's  whisper." 

Tnere  was  barely  time  to  attend  to  the  luggage,  pay  the  ImK 
and  drive  to  the  station.  They  cau^t  the  train,  and  no  more 
There  had  been  no  opportunity  of  writing  his  lordship  the  ex 
^lanation  he  had  promised.  It  must  be  postponed  until  thei? 
tfrival  in  I^ndon. 

'^  I  may  as  well  tell  him  all,  and  entreat  him  to  let  her  alone. 
Even  Sir  Peter,  when  he  learns  who  she  is,  and  receives  his 
money  back,  will  hardly  care  to  further  persecute  Katherine 
Dangeriield.  And  she  dare  not  go  with  me  for  her  own  sake  I 
Hum — m — I  don't  understand  thai^ 

It  was  late  when  the  lights  of  the  great  metropolis  flashed 
before  them.  They  drove  at  once  to  a  quiet  family  hotels  and 
late  as  it  was,  Captain  O'Donnell  sat  to  write  and  post  the 
promised  letter  to  Lord  Ruysland.  He  told  him  at  length 
of  the  story  of  his  suspicions,  of  the  night  visit  to  Bracken 
Hollow,  when  his  lord'^hip  had  seen  him  accompany  Miss 
Hemcastle  home,  of  the  scar  on  the  temple,  of  the  opening  ol 
the  grave — of  the  "  confirmation  strong  as  Holy  Writ " — the 
accumulated  evidence  which  had  p'X)ven  her  Katherine  Dan- 
gerfield. 

"  Her  sins  have  been  forced  upon  her,"  he  wrote ;  **  her 
virtues  are  her  own.  In  the  hour  of  her  triumph  she  resigns  al> 
— confesses  all,  and  sends  back  the  monev  won  to  Sir  Peter 
Dangeriield.  She  has  gone — let  her  go  m  peace.  She  has 
suffered  enough  to  expiate  even  greater  wrong-doing  than  hers. 
I  believe  she  has  made  a  much  greater  renunciation — I  believt 
she  has  destroyed  or  caused  me  to  destroy,  the  paper  that  would 
have  proved  her  birthright.  It  was  superscribed  '  Confession 
of  Harriet  Harman,'  and  now  that  1  have  had  time  to  thirU 
over  her  words,  I  believe  that  confession  proved  her  parentage 
As  I  understand  her,  this  Harriet  Harman  was  her  nurse,  ami 
for  some  reason  of  her  own,  placed  another  child  in  her  steati, 
took  her  from  England,  and  in  France  gave  her  to  Sir  John 
Danserheld.  Her  assertion  of  her  claims,  she  said,  could  bring 
nothmg  bat  misery — pain  and  shame  to  her  father — sult'eiing 
and  disgrace  to  her  who  stood  in  her  place.  So  in  the  hour  c- 
its  fruition  she  deliberately  destroyed  her  last  hope,  and  has  gor/ 
brth  intc  the  world  tc  labor  for  her  bread,  leaving  another  ?; 
RfH*n^  hrr    name  and    station       Siarrinrr    Ips?    ^reii'    hs'^   Mf.-'f 


I  w 


i !'  'm 


$«1 


TJffAr  moHT. 


made,  Jtnd  caii»*d  itself  martyrdom.  If  you  ever  meel  hfl** 
agairv,  liiy  lord- -be  her  fri«nd  as  I  would  have  been,  had  she 
allowed  me." 

The  dawn  w..s  gray  in  the  August  bky  as  Captain  O'Donnell 
posted  this  letter.  Two  hours  later,  as  he  sat  at  their  early 
Weakfast  with  his  sister,  the  cab  that  was  to  carry  them  to  Loii 
^^^^ya  Bndge  station  v/aiting  at  the  door,  one  of  the  small  boy. 
telegraph  offices  employ,  approached  him  with  an  ominoiu 
yellow  envelope  in  his  hand.  O'Donnell  tore  it  open — it  was  a 
cable  message — dated  New  Orleans,  and  in  a  dozen  word? 
changed  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life. 

**  Rkdmond  iy  Don  WBLL : — My  wife  and  son  are  dead.     For  God's  sake 
c^mc  to  me  Rt  once  and  fetch  Ro»c.  Louis  Dk  JLan5/.c.'' 


Lord  Ruysland,  without  knowing  why,  obeyed  Rednu>i  d 
O'Donrell  and  postponed  that  forcible  visit  to  Bracken  Hoi 
bw. 

"  It  isn't  like  O'Donnell  to  be  swayed  by  any  senti.riental 
impulse,"  his  lordship  mused  ;  '*  he  generally  has  some  sound 
reason  for  what  he  does  and  says.  I  wonder  what  iie  meant 
by  that  i>rofes5ion  of  sympathy  and  compassion,  and  the  rest 
of  it.  She  is  a  fine  woman — an  uncommonly  fine  wo.xian; 
but  the  big  chasseur  isn't  the  sort  lo  be  inlluenced  b>  thai. 
I'll  wait  until  f  get  his  letter  at  leas'!.,  srid  upon  my  life  I  ho[)c 
I'll  get  it  soon,  for  1  feel  as  curious  ay  a  woman." 

He  was  taking  a  gentle  evening  constitutional  around  the 
big  fish-pond,  f^'eling  ver)'  much  bored,  and  waiting  for  the 
dinner-bell.  Men  and  women  around  hini  might  sin  and  sej)a 
nt?,  love  and  part,  but  all  that  \v;i;>  over  and  done  with  long 
ago,  with  the  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Ruysland.  Life 
'lowed  on,  a  trantjuil  river — if  s  only  ""ipple  duns  and  digestion  ; 
passion  and  he  had  long  ago  shaken  hands  and  parted.  The 
iiouse  was  inuutierably  dull;  O'Donnell,  his  sister,  Sir  Aithur, 
'^'d  Sir  Teter  gone  ;  Lady  Dangerfield  in  alternate  fits  of  tear:^, 
hystencs,  scolding,  and  sulks ;  and  his  daughter  moving  about 
ih?  rooms  in  her  light  shining  sunmier  dress,  more  like  some 
•jale  spirit  of  a  dead  Lady  Cecil  than  her  living  self. 

'*  Life  has  a  natural  tendency  to  the  contraries,"  his  lordshp. 
Rioraiizcd,  plaintively-  "human  nature  inclines  to  the  /ifi-zag. 
Now  why,  in  Heaven's  name,  must  Ginevra,  gifted  with  th? 
average  of  Tvcman's  cunning — quarrel  \rich  her  lord  and  mas 
.\>T — iiffy  Sir  Peter,  and  involve  herself  and  all  her  relatione,  v:. 
^  rr.b'e?   Why  can't  Qu-rnie  bloom  and  .saiile  as  the  -ifB^ri'*'. 


THAT  SIGHT. 


519 


racken  Hoi 


Wide  of  one  of  the  richest  young  baronets  m  the  United 
Kingdom  should,  instead  of  fading  away  to  a  shadow  ?  Wh) 
need  O'Donnell  ever  have  crossed  her  path  again?  I  knon 
she  is  in  love  with  that  fellow.  Isn't  the  world  big  enough  fof 
^im  without  coming  to  Castleford  ?  And,  fmaliy,  why  couldn't 
M.is5  Herncastle  have  selected  some  OLher  peaceable  country 
%nnly  to  play  her  devilish  pranks  on  as  well  as  this  ?  Life'i 
a  game  of  contraries,  I  repeat — it  reminds  one  of  the  child's 
g>lay  :  *  When  I  say  Hold  Fast,  You  Let  Go  ! '  Ah,  good  even 
mg,  sir  ;  do  you  wish  to  speak  to  me  ?  " 

Lord  Ruysland  lifted  his  hat  blandly.     For  the  last  two  01 

three  minutes  he  had  been  watching  a  tall  young  man  ap- 

•^roaching  him — a  perfect  stranger — with  the  evident  intention 

\{  speaking.    As  he  paused  before  him,  his  debonnaire  lordship 

t)ok  the  initiative,  lifted  his  beaver,  and  addressed  him. 

"  You  wish  to  speak  to  me,  sir  ?  "  he  repeated,  suavely. 

'*  I  r/ish  to  speak  to  you,  if,  as  I  think,  you  are  the  Earl  0/ 
Ruysland." 

"  I  am  the  Earl  of  Ruysland,  and  1  have  the  honor  of  ad- 
dressing—  r  " 

**  My  name  is  Henry  Otis.  Six  years  ago  I  was  Dr.  Graves' 
assistant  and  medical  practitioner  in  Castleford.  If  your  lord- 
ship has  ever  heard  the  story  of  Katherine  Dangerheld,  you 
may  also  have  heard  of  me." 

Lord  Ruysland's  double  eye-glass  went  up  to  Lord  Ruys 
aand's  light-blue,  short-sighted,  English  eyes,  and  liOrd  Ruys- 
iand  replied,  with  the  languid  '^irawl  of  English  high  life  : 

"  Aw,  Katherine  Dangerfield,  that  ubiquitous  young  woman 
again.  Um,  yaas,  I  have  heard  the  story  of  Katherine  Dan 
gerhold  until  the  mere  sound  of  her  name  grows  a  bore.  I 
have  also  heard  in  connection  with  that  very  tiresome  young 
pfiison  the  name  of — aw — Mr.  Henry  Otis.  Now  may  1  ask 
what  Mr.  Otis  can  have  to  say  on  this — er — threadbare  sub- 
ject, and  why  he  feels  called  upon  to  say  it  to  me?" 

"  For  the  best  reason  in  the  world — that  I  believe  your  lord 
^ip  has  the  honor  of  being  Katherine  Dangerfield's  fat'\er  '. " 

Like  a  bolt  from  a  bow — like  a  bullet  whizzing  from  a  rifle, 
the  truth  came.  And  Henry  Otis  folded  his  arms  and  stood 
before  the  noble  peer  with  a  grimly  triumphant  face. 

"Your   d:.ughter ! "    he  repeated.     "You   understand,  m* 
lord^  your  only  daughter.     For  the   past  twenty  years  yo; 
brdship  has  been  laboring  under  a  monstrous  delusion, 
•nrine  Dangerfield  was  your  daughter  " 


l\    ••.,!> 


I      i 


t, 


i^Ul^ 


f  I  f 


11 


Sao 


r/iAT  sir,Hi\ 


No  shadow  of  change  canie  over  the  earl's  placid  Ukm, 
With  his  eye  glass  still  iij)  he  stood  and  stared  calmly  at  Henr^ 
Ods. 

*' You're  not  a  lunatic,  1  suppose,"  he  said,  meaningly 
"  You  don't  look  as  though  you  were.  Still  you'll  excuse  dm 
if  I  venture  to  doubt  your  perfect  sanity.  Have  ycu  any  m<M:e 
remarks  of  this  extraordinary  nature  to  make  ?  Foi  if  yor 
have" — he  pulled  out  his  watch — "my  time  is  limited.  Intel 
uainutcs  the  dinner-bell  will  ring,  and  it  is  one  of  the  few  fixed 
principles  I  have  taken  the  trouble  to  retain,  never  to  be  late 
for  dinner." 

"  My  lord,"  Henry  Otis  said,  "  you  do  not  believe  me,  o\ 
tourse — what  I  say  cannot  sound  otherwise  than  mad  and  pre- 
umptuous,  and  yet  it  is  true.  I  beg  of  you  to  listen  to  me — 
i  happen  to  be  able  to  prove  what  I  say.  Carry  your  mind 
back  twenty  years,  and  tell  me  if  you  happen  to  remember 
Harriet  Harman  ?  " 

"  I  remeiiibei    Harriet  Harman  perfectly  well.     Will   you 
pardon  me,  Mr.  Otis,  if  I  say  I  think  you  are  troubling  your 
self  greatly  with  what  in  no  way  concerns  you,  and  what  i 
have  no  desire  to  hear." 

"  By  Heaven,  my  lord,  you  shall  hear  ! "  Henry  Otis  cried, 
his  sallow  face  whitening  with  anger,  "  if  not  in  private  here, 
then  in  the  ))ublic  print.  I  am  not  mad,  though  my  assertion 
must  sound  like  madness  to  you.  I  can  prove  what  I  say. 
Twenty  years  ago,  when  Harriet  Harman  gave  you  the  child 
you  came  to  claim,  she  gave  you — not  the  daughter  of  the  late 
Countess  of  Ruysland,  but  her  own." 

There  were  five  seconds'  blank  silence.  The  face  of  Henry 
Otis  was  white,  his  pale  eyes  flashing.  For  the  earl — not  a 
muscle  of  his  well-trained  countenance  twitched,  not  a  shadow 
of  change  came  over  his  high-bred  face.  His  eye-glass  wa« 
still  held  to  his  eyes,  his  thin  lips  set  themselves  a  trifle  moie 
closely — that  was  all. 

In  the  surprise  of  the  moment,  in  the  suddenness  of  the  intei 
view,  both  had  forgotten  where  they  were.  Neither  saw  • 
^nder  figure  in  white  dinner  dress,  a  white  Uce  niandl^ 
dirown  over  its  head,  that  had  descended  from  the  portico  auv 
approached  over  the  velvet  turf.  The  last  words  of  Heni}' 
Otis  reached  her.  She  stopped  as  if  shot.  The  memorable 
King's  Oak  was  near — under  its  dark,  wide  shad^tw  shs  stooij 
tii!i  to  listen. 

This  is  a  marvelous  statement,  Mr.  Otis,"  the  peer  said 


t« 


THAT  hnGUr, 


$*» 


tnth  perfect  calm.  "  Will  you  pardon  me  once  more  if  I  find 
it  inipossib^  to  believe  it  ?  Harriet  Harinan  gave  me  hit 
child  iT.»tead  of  mine  twenty  years  ago  !  What  egregious  noD 
sensie  »s  this — taken  second-hand  from  one  of  last  centmyi 
ron^nces  ?  I  can  only  wonder  at  a  gentleman  of  your  good 
lense  repeating  it." 

"  Taken  from  a  romance,  or  what  ym  please,  my  lord,* 
Jlenry  Otis  said,  doggedly,  "but  true — tifi-e  as  Heaven  is  above 
IS.  Harriet  Harman  swore  vengeance  upon  your  wife  foi 
leparating  her  from  her  lover,  and  that  vengeance  she  wreaked 
on  her  child.  I  repeat  it — she  changed  them.  Her  child  was 
a  month  old  when  yours  was  born — your  lordship  knew  or 
cared  nothing  about  it — never  saw  it  until  it  was  given  to  you 
as  your  own.  You  saw  nothing  of  your  own  eithei  from  the 
day  of  its  birth.  Again  I  repeat,  when  you  returned  to  Eng- 
land and  Mrs.  Harman,  she  gave  you  her  own  daughter  and 
retained  yours.  The  young  lady  whom  you  have  brought  up, 
whom  you  call  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  is  in  reality  Katheiine  Har- 
man." 

There  was  a  sobbing  cry  from  beneath  the  tree  Neither 
heard  it.     His  lordship  made  a  step  forward. 

"  You  villain  ! "  he  said,  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper ; 
"  by  Heaven !  I'll  throttle  you  if  you  repeat  that  lie  !  " 

"  It  is  the  truth,"  Henry  Otis  retorted,  in  cold  disdain.  "  I 
can  prove  it.  Harriet  Harman  is  here — ready  to  swear  to  what 
1  say." 

"  And  do  you  think  I  would  believe  her  oath  if  she  did ! " 
liOrd  Ruysland  cried  j  bat  his  face  grew  a  dreadful  livid  fray  as 
he  said  it.  "  This  is  some  nefarious  plot  got  up  between  you 
to  extort  money,  no  doubt,  but — " 

He  stopped.  Henry  Otis  turned  his  back  upon  him  in  con- 
tempt. 

"  I  see  it  is  useless  talking  to  you.  A  court  of  law,  perhaps, 
trill  be  more  easily  convinced.  Harriet  Harman  is  here,  and 
ready  to  repeat  the  story.  Once  more  I  assert  Katherine 
Dangerfield  is  your  daughter — she  who  is  known  as  the  Lady 
CecU  Clive  is  not.  Before  you  are  a  week  older  I  think  *;ven 
fOOf  incredulity  will  be  staggered.  I  have  the  honor  to  wish 
your  lordship  good-evening.  There  is  the  dinner-bell.  As 
your  lordship's  fixed  principles  are  so  few,  don't  let  me  be  the 
man  to  infringe  the  most  important  of  them." 

He  lifted  his  hat  in  mocking  salute  and  turned  to  go.  But 
ius  lordship  strode  forward  and  caught  him  by  the  shouldei 


1 

I 


i 


n 


mi 

m 


%  it. 


■i 


; 


H 


1 


r;^ 


l^ 


i' 


i;   ■ 


I 


52J2 


r/fAT  NfGHT. 


"  Stay  ! "  he  said,  in  a  ringing  tone  of  command.  '*  Yvi. 
have  said  either  too  much  or  too  little.  Why  do  you  rep^ai 
Katherine  Dangerfield  is  my  daughter  ?  Kathcrine  Dangex 
field  is  dead." 

Mr.  Otis  smiled,  and  drew  himself  away. 

"  I  decline  to  say  more  to  your  lordship  at  present.     I  t«B 
'^ow  the  truth,  and  you  accuse  me  of  a  lie.     That  is  sufficient 
Harriet  Harman  is  at  Bracken  Hollow — either  to-night  oi   .o 
rKjrrcw  your  lordship  can  see  her  there.     If  you  refuse  to  be 
itve  what  she  says,  the  matter  shall  be  placed  in  the  hands  of 
justice.     Katherine  Dangerfield,  whether  living  or  dead,  shall 
bo  avenged." 

He  paused.  During  the  last  five  minutes  a  sudden  red, 
meteor-like  light  had  flashed  up  in  the  gray  southern  sky. 
Whilst  he  talked  it  had  steadily  increased — brighter  and  broader 
—redder  and  fiercer  it  grew — it  could  be  only  one  thing— ^re  / 
At  that  instant  there  came  clashing  across  the  twilight  stillness, 
the  fire  bells  of  the  town — th«{  red  light  in  the  sky  growing 
redder  and  redder. 

"  Fire ! "  Henry  Otis  exclaimed,  knitting  his  brows,  "  and  in 
that  direction.  There  is  no  house  there  but  Bracken  Hollow 
What  if  that  lunatic,  Dantree,  has  got  out  of  his  room  and  suc- 
ceeded in  what  he  has  attempted  so  often — setting  fire  to  the 
house ! " 

Clash  !  clang !  The  fire  alarm  grew  louder,  the  flames  were 
shooting  up  into  the  soft  gray  sky.  One  of  the  grooms  came 
galloping  up  the  avenue,  flinging  himself  out  of  the  saddle  at 
sight  of  the  earL 

"  Where's  the  fire,  my  man  ?  "  Otia  called. 

"  At  Bracken  Hollow,  zur ;  and  it  be  all  ablaze  as  I  coom 
Dop — "  But  Otis  did  not  wait  for  the  completion  of  the  sen- 
tence. With  one  bound  he  was  on  the  back  of  the  horse,  and 
hashing  down  the  avenue  like  the  wind. 

"  I  might  have  known,"  he  said  between  his  cienched  teeth- 
'*what  would  come  of  keeping  Hannah  with  Harriet  Harman 
J^ntree  has  got  free,  and  found  the  matches,  and  succeeded  &\ 
last  in  what  he  has  failed  so  often — setting  fire  to  Bracken  Hoi 
low." 

The  horse  was  a  fleet  one ;  he  darted  onward  like  an  arrow- 
Ten  minutes  brought  him  to  Bracken  Hollow.  There  w&s  nc 
■^ind,  but  the  old  house  was  like  tinder,  and  shrivelled  up  s.S 
DTicc.  It  looked  all  one  sheet  of  fiie  as  he  threw  himself  :^ 
lihe  horse  and  mshed  towards  it. 


J' 


THAT  l^IGH'i. 


S*'^ 


There  was  a  crowd  collected,  DJt  ..it  \\\>-  .-ngines  h;\d  ivji 
jret  arrived.  Little  use  their  comii.i,  .lovr.  At  ih-.*  intUanthc 
appeared  old  Hannah  ratne  nisjii.ig  rteadlong  out. 

"Save  him  for  Heaven's  sake  !  '  she  cried,  "if  ye  oe  men 
will  ye  stand  there  and  sec  a,  rcllow  creature  burned  to  deatii 
before  your  eyes?  I've  lOi«t  the  key  of  her  room.  Com#-^ 
tome — and  burst  open  the  Joor." 

"  What  is  it,  Hannaii  ?  '  called  Henry  Otis  ;  "  where  Is  l>as5t 
tree  and  Mrs.  Harman  ?  " 

"Oh,  thank  Heaven  you're  here!  Mrs.  Harman  is  locked 
up  in  her  room  now  and  I  can't  find  the  key.  Come  and  brcAk 
it  open  for  the  Lord's  sake.  And  he  is  I  don't  know  where — n6 
one  has  ever  seen  him  yet." 

"  He  has  made  his  escape,  no  doubt.  Stand  aside,  Hannah^ 
w  the  woman  will  be  burned  to  death." 

There  was  an  axe  in  the  porch.  He  seized  it  and  nished 
Ueadlong  through  flames  and  smoke  towards  Mrs.  Harman' s 
room.  Her  ringing  screams  broke  over  everything  now.  He 
struck  at  the  door  with  all  his  might,  but  it  was  strong  and  re- 
sisted. "Stand  from  the  door,"  he  shouted  to  her  within,  "and 
be  quiet ;  J  will  save  you."  He  stnick  it  again  and  again  ;  it 
yielded  to  the  fifth  blow,  and  went  crashing  into  the  room. 
She  was  standing,  in  spite  of  his  warning,  directly  opposite ;  it 
struck  her  heavily  and  felled  her  to  the  floor.  He  sprung  in 
and  drew  her  from  beneath.  The  sharp  angle  of  the  oak  door 
had  struck  her  on  the  head  near  the  temple  ;  a  great  stream  of 
blood  was  pouring  over  her  face  as  he  lifted  her.  The  fire 
was  already  surging  through  the  open  door.  He  bowed  his 
head  over  her,  and  with  his  burden  rushed  out  of  the  doomed 
house. 

He  laid  her  on  the  ground  senseless,  bleeding.  As  he  did 
so  a  mighty  shout  arose,  then  died  away  in  a  low  moan  of  hor 
ror.  Far  up  on  the  leads  of  the  blazing  building,  far  h*tYOT,t 
all  human  aid,  appeared  a  wild  figure — the  figure  of  a  ycurg 
man — with  dark  streaming  hair,  white  face,  and  black,  maniat 
eyes.     It  was  Gaston  Dantree. 

The  flames  shot  lurid  and  crimson  up  around  him,  higher 
than  his  head.  His  wild,  mad  cries  of  exultation  rang  shrilly 
<mt — his  laughter  curdled  the  blood  of  the  listeners.  "Hat 
ha  r'  they  heE^rd  him  shout.  "I  told  her  I'd  do  it,  and  I've- 
dcme  it     Here's  a  fire,  2.\\A  Fm  free,  I'm  free,  I'm  free  !" 

The  red  flames,  the  black  smoke,  hid  him  froMi  theii*  view : 
then  with  a  dreadful  roar  the  fire  leaped  up'  iiiiher  than  eves, 


li 


J24     ^OT  A  fi(T    '^ATf:,  HATH   t)\i!.r    THIS   BLOW, 

ftud  the  roof  fell  in  with  a  crash.     The  stror.ge.s\   the  hardest 
Uiere,  turned  away  and  covered  their  eyes,  sick  wi  h  horror. 

Six  years  before,  (raston  Dantiee  had  shuddered  with  vagui 
nameless  fear  as  he  first  looked  on  Bracken  Hoi 'Ow.  ITuU 
presentiment  wa^  fulfilled — strangely — terribly.  For  five  yean 
Rracken  Hollow  had  been  his  prison  I — this  fearfu  1  August  even 
ing  it  waf  his  grave  I 


i   it: 


111 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

"NOT  I,  BUT  FATK,  HATH  DEALT  THIS  BLOW." 

WKT.VE !  by  the  steeple  of  Castleford  High  stre.  I ; 
twelve  !  by  the  loud-voiced  clock  of  the  Scarswood 
stables.  In  the  intense,  sultry  silence  of  the  August 
night,  the  sharp,  metallic  strokes  came  even  into  that 
upper  chamber  of  the  Silver  Rose,  where,  upon  the  big,  cur- 
tained, olf'  fashioned  four-poster  in  which  Mrs.  Vavasor  and 
Rose  O'Donnell  had  both  slept,  Harriet  Harman  lay  dying. 

Dying  !  No  earthly  aid  could  reach  her  now.  The  blow  of 
the  heavy,  iron-studded  door  had  done  its  work.  Doctor 
Graves  went  into  learned  medical  details  of  the  injury  done 
the  brain,  and  out  of  that  obscure  detail  one  terrible  fact  stood 
clear — she  was  dying !  Katherine  had  spared  her,  and  in  tha/ 
very  hour  Death  had  sealed  her  for  his  own.  Her  life  of  i»in, 
of  plotting,  of  all  evil  and  wrong-doing  was  rapidly  drawing  to  a 
close  ;  the  midnight  hour  booming  soU^mnly  through  the  quiet 
town,"  was  ushering  in  the  eternal  night  for  her. 

A  smouldering  heap  of  chtrred  and  burning  ruins  was  all  that 
remained  of  Bracken  Hollow.  To-morrow,  among  the  debris, 
search  would  be  instituted  for  the  bones  of  the  wretched  victim 
of  his  own  insanity.  It  had  been  his  mania  from  the  first  to 
escape.  Dozens  of  times  he  had  attempted  to  fire  the  house, 
and  old  Hannah's  constant  vigilance  had  baffled  him.  Busied 
with  the  care  of  Mrs.  Harman,  he  had  been  overlooked  that 
day,  and  the  result  was  his  escape  from  his  room,  and  the  con- 
summation of  hi«  purpose.  The  house  was  enveloped  in  flamef 
before  Flannah  was  aware.  She  had  lain  down  to  take  a  nap, 
snd  it  was  the  cry  of  fire,  and  its  dull  roar  around,  that  awoke 


SOT  I   BVT  PATR.  HATH   OkALT    .*f/fS  BLOW. 


5^5 


her.  Bewilder^nl  by  sleep  and  fear,  she  loist  all  piesence  o^ 
mind,  forgot  her  two  charges,  and  rushed  forth.  What  she  had 
done  with  the  key  of  her  latest  prisoner's  ruotu  she  could  nol 
recollect ;  the  breaking  in  and  fall  of  the  door  did  the  rest 

They  were  all  at  the  Silver  Rose — Henry  Otis,  old  Hannah, 
Lord  Ruysland,  and — Lady  Cecil  Clive.  She  had  glided  it) 
unong  them  an  hour  before — a  gray  ashen  pallor  on  her  face^ 
»  deep  strange  horror  in  her  eyes,  but  calm  beyond  all  telling  \ 
the  walked  alone  from  Scarswood ;  she  had  heard  every  word 
of  Henry  Otis' s  interview  with  the  earl ;  she  had  neither  fainted 
nor  fallen  ;  she  had  only  sat  down  on  a  primrose  knoll,  feeling 
stunned  and  stupid.  In  that  state  she  saw  Mr.  Otis  mount  the 
groom's  horse  and  dash  away  like  a  madman  ;  she  had  hear/ 
her  father  call  his,  and  dash  adfter  ;  she  saw  the  red  light  in  tht 
sky,  and  knew  in  a  vague,  dreamy  sort  of  way,  that  it  was  a  fire 
And  then  her  mind,  without  any  volition  of  her  own,  went  back 
jtnd  repeated  over  and  over  the  strange  words  this  strange  man 
fiad  said : 

"  Lady  Cecil  Clive  is  not  your  daughter — her  name  is  Kath 
erind  Harman.  The  children  were  changed  at  nurse — your 
daughter  was  Katherine  Dangerfield." 

"  Katherine  Dangerfield !"  She  repeated  the  name  vaguely, 
pulling  the  primroses  and  mechanically  arranging  them  in  a  bou- 
quet. She  felt  no  pain — no  terror — no  disbelief — only  that 
stunned  numbness.  AvA  still  her  mind  persistently  took  up  the 
tale  and  repeated  it.  "  Not  Lord  Ruysland's  daughter ! — whose, 
then,  was  she  ?  This  Mrs.  Harman  he  spoke  of  had  been  the 
nurse — and  the  nurse  had  given  Lord  Ruysland  her  own  child. 
If  so,  then  Mrs.  Harman  must  be  her  mother.  The  thread  oi 
thought  broke  here.  She  arranged  the  primroses  in  a  different 
fashion,  twisting  a  blade  of  grass  about  the  stems.  Then  like 
%  flasn  memory  pinioned  her  thoughts.  Her  mother  !  Her 
mother,  a  guilty,  lost  woman,  and  she — she  not  Lord  Ruys- 
land's  daughter,  the  upstart  usurper  of  another's  rights. 

The  flowers  dropped  from  her  fingers,  she  started  to  her  feet 
iritha  low,  wailing  cry.  No  more  merciful  a^tathy,  no  more 
itupor  of  mind.  Clear  as  the  crimson  light  yonder  in  the  twi- 
light sky  the  whole  truth  burst  upon  her.  She  was  not  Lord 
Ruysland's  daughter — she  was  a  usuri)er,  and  as  such  about  to 
be  shown  to  the  world — no  peeress  of  England,  but  the  child 
of  a  guilty,  desi^ng  servant  woman. 

She  staggered  as  she  stood,  and  grasped  the  branch  (A  a  tree. 
Her  hands  ilew  up  and  covered  her  face — one  heart-broken  mk 


C^      VO-T     ',   /  '  ^       iTP.,    hAFH   FiFAl.T    TfTTS    ILOX^, 


'  '     i 

I  '* 


h     M! 


^!' 


I-  X 


bfolft  (loni  h«'.  1<*^^  was  very  proud — sweet,  gentle,  gracio*u, 
cU  womanly  iho  '/;»,/.,  but  even  th.'it  sweet  gr«ciousni:sft  arors 
•)ut  of  her  pride  The  dau^^hter  of  a  "belted  t^rirl"  can  SiffotC 
♦o  wear  a  imUf.  for  all  less-favored  nujrtals.  She  had  been 
intensely  proud  of  the  name  and  rank  she  bore — of  the  nobb 
Lne  of  ancestry  stretching  back  to  tin."  Norman  William  ;.eveiTf 
8l6ni,  every  tree  around  dear,  old,  ivied  Clive  Court,  she  lovt«i 
like  living  things.  Her  very  pride  had  made  her  accept  wha* 
\t2i(.\  galled  tliat  prli  most — the  formal  ofTer  of  Sir  Arthur  Tre 
^cTtna.  He  bore  *  ime  as  old,  nay  older,  liian  her  own  ;  the 
fregennas  had  been  barons  and  warriors  in  the  reign  of  luUvard 
the  Confessor — the  old  glory  of  the  house  of  Ruysland  would 
DC  restored  by  this  alliance.  Had  the  man  she  loved  ask»  (i 
her  to  be  his  wife,  to  go  with  him  and  share  his  poverty  anc^ 
obscurity — the  chances  are,  loving  him  with  a  desperate,  pas- 
Kionate  love  as  she  did,  she  might  still  have  refused  him.  And 
row  ! 

Her  hands  dropped  from  before  her  face— she  stood  -old, 
and  white,  and  still.  It  was  the  righteous  punishment  of  such 
[^ride  as  hers,  such  selfishness — such  an  outrage  on  all  that  WaS 
best  and  most  womanly  within  her.  Of  all  the  men  the  world 
held,  she  loved  but  one  ;  handsomer,  nobler,  more  talented 
had  asked  her  to  be  their  wife,  but  her  heart  had  been  like  a 
stone  to  all,  Redmond  O'Donnell  she  had  loved  from  the 
first.  Redmond  O'Donnell  she  would  love  until  she  died, 
And  with  heart  full  to  overflowing  with  that  ])assionate  lovC; 
she  had  yet  been  ready  to  become  the  wife  of  another  man. 
That  man's  pride  of  birth  and  station  was  etiual  to  her  own — 
what  could  he  say  to  this  ? 

"  Fire — fire  I  "  The  servants  were  echoing  the  cry  an(i 
rushing  to  the  highest  ooints,  v/here  they  could  see  it  best,  h 
was  nothing  to  her  ;  she  drew  back  behin«I  the  tree,  and  stood 
looking  blankly,  blindly  before  her.  The  child  of  a  servant !  a 
usurper  !  The  world  seemed  rocking  under  her  feet — the  trees 
fwimming  round.  ^VTiy  had  she  not  died  befcre  the  truth  wa;- 
told  ?  The  night  fell — the  dew  with  it ;  she  still  stood  there, 
hsredless.  She  heard  with  preternatural  distinctness  the  loii* 
fxmtendiinj  voices  of  the  servants  announcing  the  whereabouia 
&{  the  6r«.  The  servants  !  It  came  to  her  tnat  she  should  b? 
oae  of  thsm — that  her  birthright  had  been  the  servants'  hali, 
oot  the*  drawins-room.  Strangely  enough  she  had  nevn 
ih€H>ght  of  doubting — she  had  s^-ien  Henry  Otis'  face  ■  ->.?ard  bv 
^•34<5*i,  and  ^^It,  she  knevr  not  how.  that  he  had  told  the  tnnh. 


NOT   t,   PCTT  FATF.,    HATH    OF  ALT   THIS   BLOW.      5.^7 


Presently  coine  a  messenger  ruslang  br<?.\tlile8.s  from  th« 
town,  full  of  the  exciting  news,  bracken  Hollow  was  barne.l 
to  the  ground  ;  a  man,  nobody  knew  who — burned  to  death 
with  it,  and  a  woman  killed.  They  had  taken  the  woman  to  the 
Silver  Rose  ;  she  was  rot  (luite  dead  yet,  it  siren>e<l,  and  id| 
lord  had  gone  after  her,  and  was  there  now.  The  wonun't 
name  had  leaked  out  somehow  -it  was  Mrs.  Harinan. 

Mrs.  Harman  !  Her  mother !  It  flashed  upon  het  wha? 
Mr.  Otis  had  said — Mrs.  Harman  had  been  imprisoned  at 
^>racken  Hollow  to  confess  the  truth,  and  now  lay  dying  at  the 
Silver  Rose  Fler  mother  I  Ouilty  or  not — lost,  wretched, 
abandoned — still  her  mother.  She  started  up — all  stupor,  ali 
pride  gone  forever.  She  walked  to  the  house — ran  up  to  her 
jwn  room — threw  off  her  light  muslin  a-^d  costly  laces,  re- 
})laced  them  by  a  dress  of  dark  gray,  a  sununcr  shawl  and  hat^ 
Then  five  minutes  after  was  walking  rapidly  toward  the  t(jwn. 
She  had  told  no  one,  Oinevra  was  absorbed  in  her  own  troubles, 
and  there  was  no  time  for  exi)lanations.  An  hour  before  niid- 
night  she  reached  the  Silver  Rose. 

A  crowd  of  the  town  people  were  still  gathered  excitedly 
before  it.  A  man  burned  to  death — a  v  oman  killed — Rrackcn 
Hollow  in  ashes — not  ofteji  was  Castletord  so  exercised  as  this. 
And  the  dying  woman  must  be  somebody  of  im[)ortance,  since 
my  lord  himseW  refused  to  leave  the  inn  until  her  fate  was  one 
way  or  other  decided. 

They  fell  back  wondering  and  respectful  as  Lady  Cecil  Clive 
drew  near.  Were  they  asleep  or  awake  ?  Lord  Ruysland's 
only  daughter,  alone  and  on  foot,  in  Castleford  at  this  hour. 
She  passed  through  them  all — never  seeing  them— seeing 
nothing,  it  seemed.  The  soft  hazel  eyes  had  a  blind,  sightless, 
sleep- waking  sort  of  stare — her  face  was  all  drawn  and  white 
In  the  passage  she  came  face  to  face  with  the  landlord.  Ihc 
dark,  solemn  eyes  looked  at  him. 

"  Lord  Ruysland  is  here,"  the  pale  lips  said,  "  take  me  it 
^im." 

The  man  drew  back  a  step — that  nameless  something  in  hei 
colorless  face  terrified  him. 

"  Take  me  to  him,"  she  repeated,  "  at  once." 

He  bowed  low  and  led  the  way.  Wlio  was  the  dying  woman 
upstairs,  that  Lord  Ruysland  and  his  daughter  should  trouble 
■.hemselves  like  this?  He  had  not  seen  her  face-  proball;- 
^"oisid  not  have  recalled  it  if  he  iiad.  His  lordship  was  no£  ia 
die  sick  chamber,  but  in  the  little  parlor  adjoining-   the  littl? 


u*- 


5^8     A'Oy  /,  BUT  FATE,    HATH   DHMT    TBIS  BLOWT, 


I'- 


i' 


-t 


parlor,  where,  one  other  night,  six  years  before,  Sir  Jolio  DajK 
jerfield's  adopted  daughter  had  waited  to  see  Mrs.  Vavaaor. 
He  was  walking  very  slowly  and  softly  up  and  down,  hiA  brow 
knit  with  a  reflective  frown — one  white,  slender  hand  thrust 
tn^de  his  coat.  He  looked  up,  and  saw,  without  warning  ol 
Miy  sort,  Cecil.  He  absolutely  recoiled — the  sight  of  her,  at 
that  hour,  in  this  place,  and  wearing  tfuit  face,  so  startled  him 
hat  for  a  second's  time  he  half  doubted  if  it  were  not  her  wraith. 

"  Quecnie  ! "  he  gasped. 

'*  Yes,  papa — Queenie."  She  came  forward  and  stood  befoie 
him.  "I  was  hx  the  grounds,"  she  continued,  with  perfect 
abruptness,  **ver}'  near  you,  when  Mi.  Otis  came  ard  told  you 
his  story.     I  heard  it  all.     It  is  true,  I  suppose,  papa  ?  " 

He  stood  silent — speechless — looking  at  her  in  wonder  and 
doubt 

"  it  is  true,  I  suppose  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  What  is  true  ?  " 

"  That  I  am  not  your  daughter — that  Katherine  Dangerfield 
was.    That  I  am  the  daughter  of  the  woman  dying  in  that  room." 

He  was  a  man  ordinarily  very  chary  of  caresses,  but  he  waa 
fond  of  the  girl  he  had  believed  his  daughter — he  was  fond  oi 
her  still.  Her  beauty  and  her  elegance  had  gratified  his  pride  ; 
her  gentle,  tender,  winning  ways  had  won  his  heart — -or,  at 
least,  as  much  heart  as  that  noble  lord  had  to  win.  He  took 
her  in  his  arms  now  and  kissed  her. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  very  gently,  "  I  hope  you  know  me  well 
enough  to  be  sure  that,  whether  it  is  true  or  false,  you  will 
still  be  the  same  to  me — the  daughter  I  love  and  am  proud 
of.  I  wish  you  need  never  have  heard  it ;  but,  since  it  must 
come,  I  am  thankful  I  am  not  the  one  to  break  it  to  yon.  It 
is  a  very  terrible  and  shocking  affair  from  first  to  last ;  I  feel 
almost  too  stuiiiied  ?•-  realize  it  yet." 

"It  is  perfectly  true,  then  ?  " 

"  Well— yes,  Queenie — I  am  afraid  it  is." 

Had,  all  unknown  to  herself,  some  dim,  shadowy  hope  st3! 
Ungered  in  her  breast  that  it  might  not  be  true  ?  The  sharpest 
oang  siie  had  felt  yet  pierced  her  as  she  heard  his  quiet  words. 
VVith  a  sort  of  gasp  her  head  fell  on  his  shoulder  and  lay  there. 

"  My  ^ecr  liitlc  Queenie,"  he  said,  tenderly,  "  it  is  hard  on 
you.  Confound  Otis  !  Why  the  devil  couldn't  he  keep  the 
ne&rious  story  to  himself?  /was  satisfied — where  ignorance 
is  bliss  'twc  J  folly  to  be  wise.  You  are  the  oniy  daughter  1 
want,  &o4  the  (Jther  poor  girl  is  dead — can't  do  her  any  good 


ifOT  /,  BV'4    FATE,  HATE  DEALT   THIS  BLOW,     53^ 


now.  But  '^cin^iiiber,  Quecnie,  whatever  comes  3f  it,  I  look 
■poD  you  still  as  my  daughter — all  the  Otises  and  Harmans  on 
earth  shall  not  se^iarate  you  and  me.  As  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna'i 
wife  we  can  afford  to  despse  their  malice." 

She  shivered  slightly  at  the  sound  of  that  name — then  ihf 
lifted  her  head  and  drew  herself  away  from  him. 

"Papa,"  she  said,  "  you  know  why  I  have  come  here.  If— 
I  mean  since  she  is  my  mother — I  must  see  her.  Oh,  papa,  i 
must/  She  has  done  a  terrible  wrong,  but  she  is  dying,  and — * 
the  agony  within  her  broke  into  a  wailing  sob  here — **I  can't 
beheveit — I  can't — unless  I  hear  it  from  her  own  lips.  Take 
me  to  her,  papa — please." 

''  I  doubt  if  she  will  ever  speak  to  any  one  in  this  world 
again — still  the  doctors  say  she  may.  Graves  and  Otis  are 
with  her.     I'll  ask  them  if  they'll  admit  you." 

He  tapped  at  the  door. 

The  pale  face  of  Henry  Otis  looked  out  As  his  eyes  fell 
on,  the  tall,  slender,  elegant  figure  of  the  young  lady,  even  he 
shrank. 

"  My  daughter  is  here,"  the  earl  said  coldly.  "  She  knows 
all.  She  wishes  to  see  Mrs.  Harman,  to  hear,  if  it  be  possible 
for  Mrs.  Harman  to  speak — confirmation  of  your  story  from 
her  lips.  I  think  even  you  will  allow,  Mr.  Otis,  this  is  no  more 
than  her  : ' jb  /' 

"  It  is  he  right,"  Henry  Otis  said  calmly. 

He  boir  ,-d  to  the  queenly  form  and  lovely  face,  and  held  the 
door  wi('  J  for  her  to  pais. 

"  You,  too,  my  lord,"  he  said.  "  She  is  dying,  but  she  is 
conscious,  and  she  has  spoken.  I  must  beg,"  he  lo'jked  at 
Lady  Cecil,  "  that  you  will  be  very  quiet  A  moment's  excite 
ment  ivould  be  fatal" 

She  lowed  her  head  and  glided  to  the  bedside  In  the  din 
Hght  ol  the  shaded  lamp  she  looked  down  upon  the  djing  face 
Evea  to  her  inexperienced  eyes  the  dread  seal  of  death  lay 
ther? — the  faint  breathing  was  not  audible,  the  eyes  were  closed 
-<he  fingers  moved  a  little,  plucking  at  the  sheet  Opposite 
tlood  Dr.  Graves  holding  her  pulse  in  one  hand — his  watch  in 
the  other.  Lord  Ruysland  followed  and  stood  beside  Jiis 
daughter.     Henry  Otis  bent  over  her  and  spoke. 

"  Mrs.  Harman,  Ix)rd  Ruysland  '%  here.  Can  you  speak  to 
him?" 

The  eyelids  fluttered — lifted — the  gicat  dark  eyes  looked  ugi 
(Xiitt  c/  th<r  rigid  U  ^  a>td  fured  it  oiice  upon  the  Garl's. 


^JO    ^OT   /,  SUT  FATE,    HATP    DEALT   THIS  BLOi». 


W-   ■;! .; 


-    H 


"  Harriet,"  he  said,  and  at  the  sound  of  the  old  nttBie  tli:: 
dying  face  lit.     "  You  know  me,  do  you  not?" 

"  Yes,"  very  faintly  the  word  came ;  "  my  lord.  I'--kAe^ 
fOM.     1  arn  sorry — "  the  whisper  died  away. 

He  bent  close  above  her. 

"Listen,  Harriet — speak  if  you  can — tell  the  truth  now, 
li  Henry  Otis'  story  true?  Was  it  your  child — yourown^— yo« 
gave  me  twenty  years  ago,  or  mine  ?  " 

"It  was  mine — I  will  swear  it — if  yci  like.     1  kept  yours 
I  hated  my  lady.     I  swore  revenge.     SLie  parted  me  from  Lio 
nel.     Lionel !  Lionel !  "     Her  face  lit  again — the  old  love  o : 
her  youth   came   back !      The  old  love  I  mighty  beyond  all 
earthly  passion,  might)'  to  break  prison  b^rs,  to  compass  Tie 
earth,  to  cross  oceans,  to  endure  in  the  very  throes  of  deat>  . 

Lord  Ruysland  bent  closer  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Look,  Harriet,"  he  said ;  "  look  at  this  face  beside  vc  .  It 
is  the  child  you  gave  me — that  I  love.  Tell  me  again,  •  6  God 
hears  and  will  judge  you,  is  she  yor^rs  or  mine  ?  " 

The  dark  eyes  turned  upon  the  lovely,  youthful  far  .  She 
sank  on  her  knees,  and  came  very  near  that  dying  fact  . 

"  She  is — mine — as  God  hears  and  will  judge  me — mii.r,  Kath« 
enne  Harman.  Yours  I  gave  to  Sir  John  DangerfieU.  Her 
grave  is  in  Castleford  Churchyard,  and  I  saw  her — saw  her  - 
two  nights  ago." 

TiOrd  Ruysli\nd  looked  at  Henry  Otis. 

"  She  saw  Helen  Hemcastle,"  Henry  Otis  answered;  wit! 
rigidly  compressed  lips. 

"  I  did  you  great  wrong,"  the  dying  lips  whispered  again — tn< 
dying  eyes  tiuning  once  more  to  the  earl.  The  sight  of  he' 
child  seemed  to  wake  no  emotion  whatever  within  her.  " ) 
ftated  nty  lady — I  swore  revenge — and  1  took  it.  I  kept  hcj 
child.  She  parted  me  from  Lionel.  He  loved  me — Lionel  ^ 
Lionel ! " 

The  faintly  whispering  voice  died  away — she  never  spoke 
again.  Lady  Cecil's  face  lay  buried  ir*  .er  hands — on  the  oth 
srs  dead  silence  fell.  The  eyes  closed,  a  spasm  shook  ha 
&om  head  to  foot.  **  Zwngi,**  ths  lips  seemed  to  form  once, 
shen  theic  was  a  moment's  quiet,  &  strong  shiver,  and  with  it 
the  last  flicker  of  the  lamp  went  out.  And  death  stood  in  the 
midst  of  them. 

"  Come  away,  my  d&rling,"  tke  earl  whispered  tendwljr  ifi 
L&dy  Cecil's  ear. 

Tvo  sightle^i'j  -y*a  look  up  jit  him,  blicd  with  dumb  mi'^erf— 


|lv 


ifOT  /,  BUT  FAlE^   HATH  DEALT   TH/S  BLOW,     jjj 

t:^£n  with  a  gasp  the  tension  that  had  held  her  ap  so  «ong  g&vt 
^a3^     She  fell  back  fainting  in  his  arms. 

The  blindj  were  closed — a  solemn  hush  lay  o/er  the  house. 
In  the  parlor  of  the  Silver  Rose  two  coffins  stood  on  tressela, 
I  ri  one  the  body  of  Harriet  Harnian  lay — in  the  other,  whan 
rhey  had  found  in  the  ruins  of  Bracken  Hollow. 

At  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day.  Ovta 
^kiarswood  Park  summer  silence  and  summer  beauty  reigned. 
The  fish- pond  and  fountains  flashed  like  jewels  in  the  sunshine- 
turfy  Ip.nes,  emerald  green — white,  pink,  and  crimson  August 
roses  nodded  their  fragrant  heads  in  the  sultry  heat.  The 
stone  terraces — the  great  urns  were  burnished  lil;e  silver,  the 
leaves  of  the  copper  beeches  were  blood  red  rubies,  and  long 
lances  of  light  went  slanting  in  amid  the  waving  greenery  ol 
fern.  The  peacock  strutted  unadmired  in  the  sun,  bees 
boomed^  grasshoppers  chirped,  but  no  living  thing  was  to  be 
seen  around  the  grand  old  mansion.  Everywhere,  within  and 
without.  Sabbath  silence  reigned. 

The  Earl  of  Ruysland  was  alone  in  the  solitude  and  splendor 
of  the  drawing-rooms,  his  reflection  in  the  many  mirrors  meen 
ing  hiin  at  every  turn,  like  a  black-robed  ghost.  lie  was  wall  • 
ing  up  and  down  as  Lady  Cecil  had  found  him  last  night — the 
same  thoughtful  frown  on  his  brow,  the  same  exas])erated 
thought  still  uppermost. 

"  Why  the  deuce  couldn't  Otis  have  minded  his  business  and 
let  things  alone  ?  From  all  I  have  heard  of  the  ether  one^*  \\t 
resumed,  "i  was  much  better  off  without  her.  She  was  nc-ithc« 
handsome  nor  amiable  \  she  was  passionate,  headstrong,  willfu', 
disobedient  Cecil  is  none  of  these  things ;  she  has  been  a 
creditable  daughter  from  first  to  last.  And  they  say  bloovj 
Islls.  Why  need  this  officious  fool,  this  meddlesome  Otis,  go 
iAkhig  up  the  unpleasant  truth?  The  other  is  dead — it  can't 
enefit  her.  Cecil  is  alive,  and  it  will  make  her  wretched  all 
.he  rest  of  her  life,  poor  child,  and  what — what  will  Sir  Arthu! 
say?  One  consolation  is,  he  is  the  soul  incarnate  of  honor  : 
}^e  won't  draw  back,  if  I  know  him  at  all ;  J  believe  he  will 
oiily  pi  ess  his  suit  the  haider.  So  poor  Queenie  is  provided 
Tor  in  any  case.  Egad  !  I  didn't  know  how  fond  I  was  of  hcf 
bi^fore  !  It's  a  very  unpleasant  business  from  first  to  last,  and 
\  cTajd  :>ce  Otis  at  the  bottom  of  the  bottomless  pit  with  plea* 
uxc.  il  must  be  hushed  up — at  auy  price,  it  must  be  hushtyJ 
^^"Hiir  my  aake,  for  my  late  wife's,  for  pooi  Queenie' a,  fw 


! 


il 
!'■■  ■■' 


I! 


H' 


W  i 


•I    ii 


fiw  . 


I  ft .'    1 


132    ^fOr  1^  BUT  FATE,  HATH  DEALT   THIS  BLOW. 

Arthui'«.  The  devil  take  Otis  I  what  was  the  fool's  motive,  I 
wonder  ?  What — what  if  that  diabolical  Miss  Hemcastle  hai 
had  something  to  do  with  this,  too?  On  my  life,  she  hasi 
Wa»  there  ever  an  infernal  piece  of  mischief  let  loose  on  the 
earth  yet,  without  the  woman  being  the  instigator  ?  I  believe," 
— ne  struck  his  hands  together — "it  is  Miss  Hemcastle'i 
^iJiwoik  from  first  to  last.     Well,  Soames,  what  now  ?  ' 

"  The  post,  my  lord — letters  for  your  lordship." 

The  bowing  Soames  placed  a  silver  salver,  on  which  half  k 
4o£en  letters  were  arranged,  before  his  lordship,  and  backed 
fmxa  the  room. 

There  were  one  or  two  for  Lady  Cecil — one  from  Sir  Arthur 
Fregenna — two  for  Lady  Dangerfield,  and  two  for  himself  The 
irst  of  these  letters  was  on  business  from  his  solicitor,  tlk 
other  in  a  hand  that  was  new  to  him.  He  broke  it  open-  B 
was  lengthy.  He  glanced  at  the  name — "  Redmond  O'Donnell." 

"Now  whai  does  O'Donnell  mean,  by  making  me  wade 
through  twelve  closely  written  pages  ?  "  his  lordship  said  in  an 
aggrieved  tone.  "  How  little  consideration  some  people  have 
for  the  feelings  of  their  fellow-beings !  I'll  look  over  it  at  least, 
I  suppose." 

He  adjusted  his  eye-glass,  smoothed  out  the  pages,  and  glanced 
ihrough  them.    "  Miss  Hemcastle " — "  Katherine  Dangerfield" 
—what  did  it  mean  ?    Everywhere  those  two  names ! 

His  lassitude  vanished.  He  began  at  the  beginning,  and 
flowly  and  carefully  read  the  letter  through.  His  face  changed 
as  it  had  not  changed  when  Otis  first  broke  to  him  the  news 
that  his  daughter  was  not  his  daughter.  Goodness  above ! 
what  was  this?  Katherine  Dangerfield  not  dead i  Katherine 
Dangerfield  and  Miss  Hemcastle  one  and  the  same !  Kath 
erine  Dangerfield  his  daughter  1  Miss  Hemcastle,  whom  hr 
had  hunted  down,  whom  he  had  employed  a  detective  t< 
ta-ack,  whom  he  had  driven  from  Scars  wood  like  a  felon — Kath 
erine  C  ^ngerfield  and  Miss  Hemcastle  one  !  He  turned  sick 
He  1^  1  .own  the  letter — a  creeping  feeling  of  faintness  upoi 
him — s.id  waited.  The  soft  breeze  of  the  summer's  evening 
«lew  on  his  face.  A  carafe  of  ice- water  stood  on  i  table  He 
^ank  a  glass,  took  a  turn  about  the  room,  sat  down  suddenly 
md  read  the  letter  over  again. 

It  was  plainly  there — all  tiie  proofs,  one  after  another ;  nc 

loabting  -no  disputing  now.     She  had  not  died  ;  Otis  knew  li 

ftnd  had  not  told  him  this.     He  recalled  the  picture  of  Lione! 

Cssxiuiell  In  the  pr^«w»««»«ifHi  of  the  govemejss,  her  interest  in  0»« 


ROW  IT  ENDED. 


SS3 


ttory,  the  strong  likeness  to  his  dead  wife  that  had  struck  hiu 
the  first  time  he  saw  her.  The  ^host  and  the  resemblance  tt 
ICAthenne  Dangerfield  were  explamed  now.  /i  wig  and  dyej 
cy^bro'^s  were  all  the  disguises  she  had  assumed.  \Vhata  boM 
game  she  had  played !  And  Tregenna  had  fallen  in  love  with 
her,  and  he  had  separated  them — forced  him  to  propose  to 
Hamet  Hannan's  daughter.  His  daughter  lived — had  relented 
at  the  eleventh  hour — had  burned  the  confession — returned  Stf 
Peter  his  money—  renounced  her  retribution — and  gone  iiit* 
Ih*?  world  alone  and  unaided  to  fight  the  bitter  battle  of  life. 

tor  once  in  his  life,  cynicism,  philosophy,  Voltairism  fell 
fi-om  the  Earl  of  Ruysland  ;  for  once  all  the  cree'^'s  of  his  train* 
ing  and  his  order  were  powerless  to  help  him  be^r  this.  Had 
Redmond  O'Donnell  ever  asked  for  revenge — had  he  seen  hira 
Ihen— even  he  might  have  been  amply  satisfied  He  covered 
hii  eyes  ?nth  his  hand — struck  to  the  very  soul. 

'  <>»  God  I  "  he  cried,  "  this  is  the  hardest  to  »v^  of  all  I " 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


HOW   IT   ENDED. 


T  was  r  Srilliant  April  day. 

Thai  never-to-be  forgotten  August,  and  all  tlva 
bright  SL»mner,  the  yellow  autumn,  the  chill  gray  wii«- 
ter  month*  had  worn  away.  March  had  howled  an 4 
blustered  through  tht  If aficss  trees  of  Scarswood  Park,  and  no# 
April,  soft  and  sunny,  s»oiling  and  showering,  was  here,  clothing 
ill  the  land  in  living  grern. 

The  bright  afternoon  was  at  its  brightest,  <ts  Lady  Cec'l  Clivff 
;oo>k  \vtt  seat  in  a  rustic  chair  under  the  King's  Oak.  her  sketch- 
book in  her  lap,  the  flickering  lines  of  yellow  light  slanting  oi> 
Jdct  uncovered  head  Pearl  and  Pansy  played  at  hide-and-seek 
<ik>ng  the  terraces  and  through  the  ♦rees.  Lady  Dangerfield,  in 
fte  drawing-room,  played  waltzes  en  the  piano  \  ard  Lady 
Cecil  let  book  and  pencils  fall  listless\y  and  sat  ''  lost  in  mem- 
ory't  mazes." 

Eight  mondiB  had  passed  and  goni  since  that  August  day 
when  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  had  stood  by  h«^r  r'de  ar  "onrlei 
wmsDd  \xnMc  window  and  asked  \%m  to  b*  bMi  w^     KlgM 


f34 


HOW  IT  ENDED. 


!'    i 


ii  ■  'A 


Bionths  liiice,  in  the  hotel  parlor^  he  had  pleaded  with  bei  to 
mjuTy  him — pleaded  whilie  all  his  heart  was  another  s — pleaded, 
and  in  vain. 

They  had  met  but  once  since  then,  and  then  how  dififerently. 

He  had  gone  abroad,  and  resumed  his  wandering  life.  Before 
Roing,  however,  he  had  called  upon  Katherine — a  most  unsat- 
ififactory  and  embarrassing  meeting  for  both.  Why  he  ha^ 
gone  he  could  hardly  have  told;  some  "spirit  in  his  feet" 
— some  spirit  in  his  heart.  He  went  because  he  could  not  leave 
England  for  years  without  seeing  her.  There  was  very  little  to 
ftay  ©n  either  side — a  mutual  restraint  held  them — the  interview! 
had  been  silent  and  short.  He  looked  into  the  pale,  grave, 
thoughtful  face,  into  the  sad,  large  eyes,  and  knew,  more 
strongly  than  he  had  ever  known  it  before,  that  this  wo^nan, 
of  all  the  women  on  earth,  was  the  only  one  he  ever  had  or  evei 
would  love. 

And  knowing  it  he  had  left  her.  Was  it  not  wisest  ?  Eai^ 
Ruysland's  daughter  she  might  be,  injured  beyond  all  repara- 
tion she  might  be,  but  also,  she  had  been  an  adventuress  none 
the  less.  He  was  very  proud — proud  of  his  old  lineage,  his 
spotless  name,  his  unstained  descent.  No  whisper  had  evei 
been  breathed  against  the  women  of  his  race ;  should  he  be  the 
first  to  blot  their  escutcheon  ?  She  had  suffered  greatly,  but 
also  she  had  sinned.  She  had  plotted  and  worked  for  revenge. 
She  had  been  an  actress.  She  had  been  at  the  very  altar,  the 
bride  of  a  worthless  wretch.  She  had  stooped  to  play  upon 
that  superstitious  Sir  Peter's  fears — to  play  the  ghost.  ^Ae  had 
acted  a  lie,  acted  a  doubly  deceitful  part,  gone  in  male  attire  to 
the  masquerade,  personated  Frankland,  and  separated  n4an  and 
wife.  And  last,  and  worst  of  all  in  this  dark  and  deadly  sam< 
ming  up  of  crime,  she  had  palmed  herself  ofif  again,  of  course 
m  male  attire,  as  Gaston  Dantiee,  and  with  the  cooln ess  and 
ddll  of  a  Homburg  gambler,  won  from  the  baronet  his  money 

All  this  she  had  done.  He  might  be  in  love,  but  he  wras  not 
blind — ^he  summed  up  the  evidence  mercilessly  agaiust  her. 
True,  at  the  eleventh  hour  she  had  striven  to  repair  and  atone ; 
bat  can  any  reparation  or  atonement  ever  wash  out  i^uilt  on 
^  ^  ?  She  had  been  great  even  in  her  wrong-doing ;  bat  sucb 
M  »^man  as  this  was  no  wife  for  him.  And  he  turned  his  back 
vceolutely  upon  Eogland  and  her,  and  went  wandering  ever  die 
vuikl,  striving  to  forget. 

but  forgetfulness  would  not  come.  How  is  it  tintter  on 
^^?trol  to  love  or  not  to  love?"  He  could  not  banish  ki« 
iif-MKaix,  or  fbe  love  with  which  tihc  had  itispk^t?  Vifm,  ftcw*  Vk 


NOW  tT  ENDED.  5|| 

l^eart  ITie  pale,  wistful  face,  the  dark,  sad  eyes  followed  himi 
haunted  him,  wherever  he  went.  And  just  three  months  aftet 
tiis  dep«  ture,  ti^ere  came  to  Miss  Dangerfield  a  letter,  poet 
marked  O.^nstC'atinople,  pouring  forth  all  his  doubts,  all  bk 
scruples,  all  his  love — a  full  confession.  He  could  not  be 
Impp7  without  her — would  she  be  his  wife  ? 

Her  answer  was  a  refusal. 

**  I  would  indeed  be  unworthy  the  great  compliment  yon  pM 
Be,"  she  wrote,  "  if  I  accepted  your  generous  offer.  My  liw 
has  gone  wrong  from  first  to  last ;  all  the  years  that  are  to  come 
will  be  too  few  for  atonement.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna's  wife  must 
be  above  reproach.  No  one  in  the  future  shall  lift  the  finger 
of  scorn,  and  say  the  last  of  a  noble  line  disgraced  it  by  mar- 
rying me.  It  is  utterly  impossible.  Sir  Arthur,  that  T  can  be 
your  wife.  But  the  knowledge  that  I  once  won  a  heart  so  truej 
so  noble,  will  brighten  all  my  life." 

He  had  written  to  her  again,  and  she  had  answered,  ^entiy, 
but  with  unflinching  resolution.  Again  he  wrote,  agam  she 
replied,  and  the  correspondence  went  on  between  them.  Dur- 
ing that  winter  long  letters  from  every  city  in  Europe  came  to 
the  little  cottage  of  Henry  Otis.  And  so — they  hardly  knew 
how — they  grew  to  understand  one  another  as  they  might  nevei 
have  done  else.  She  learned,  as  the  months  went  by,  to  look 
for  the  coming  of  those  pleasant  white-winged  messengers  as 
gleams  of  sunshine  in  her  sobt-ir,  drab-colored  life.  As  for  him 
— how  eagerly  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  received  and  welcomed  the 
replies,  only  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  knew. 

For  the  rest,  she  had  already  atoned  in  great  measure  for  the 
evil  of  the  past.  Her  letter  to  Sir  Peter,  her  humility,  her  forgive- 
ness, had  somehow  made  its  way  even  to  his  stuivelled,  icy 
heart  The  unutterable  relief  of  knowing  she  was  not  dead, 
that  the  ghost  was  no  ghost,  of  receiving  intact  all  his  moaej 
back,  was  so  great,  that  he  was  ready  to  promise  anything,  da 
anything,  ^e  asked  but  one  boon ;  that  he  would  forgive  and 
^ke  back  his  wife.  The  blame  of  the  masked  ball  was  all  hen 
—hers  alone.  Lady  Dangerfield  would  never  have  gone  but 
ibr  her  urging.  He  read  it,  his  dried-up  little  heart  soften- 
ing wonderfully  for  the  time.  He  finished  it,  he  ordered  hii 
charger,  he  rode  forth  to  Scarswood  and  his  wife.  What  that 
conjugal  meeting  was  like  the  world  is  not  destined  to  know 
Sk*  Peter  was  relenting  but  dignified,  very  dignified,  and  my 
lady,  hysterical,  frightened,  ready  to  eat  humble  pie  to  any 
Aitent,  cetifBed  the  reins  of  power  at  once  and  forever.  The 
Wlwmftt  of  p«ftoe  wu  moked — a  treaty  of  peace  issqed  tm 


%^ 


MOW  IT  ENDED, 


m 


;!■,£( 


miivkv  coMSfinTM.  One  was  that  the  town  house  wai  to  bi 
leased;  no  more  London  seasons,  no  more  a  box  ad  boCli 
houses  ;  Scan  wood  and  her  husband  were  to  be  brightened  by 
her  presence  the  year  round.  And  Jasper  Frankland  was  nivxb 
to  come  down  aeain.  Indeed  the  less  company  the  Park  saw, 
Sir  Peter  mgnifiea,  the  better  its  sovereign  lord  and  master  would 
like  it. 

Lord  Ruysland  had  gone  abroad.  There  was  always  a  little 
Boney  to  be  picked  up  at  Baden-Baden  and  Horoburg ;  living 
was  cheap.  1  o  Baden  and  Homburg  the  noble  earl  went,  and 
entered  the  lists  of  "  Birds  of  prey.''  For  Cecil,  her  home  was 
still  at  Scarswood — in  the  capacity  of  governess,  vice  Miss 
Hemcastie,  resigned. 

*'  You  will  want  a  governess  for  Pearl  and  Pansy,  you  say, 
Ginevra,"  she  said  quietly,  the  day  preceding  her  fath«^r's  de 
parture.     ** 'lake  me." 

"  Queenie  I "  my  lady  cried     "  You  ?  " 

1  ne  discovery  of  Queenie's  parentage  had  made  no  change  in 
Crinevra's  affections.  If  there  was  one  true,  pure,  womanly  feel- 
ing in  her  hard,  worldly,  selfish  heart,  it  was  for  La  Rsine  Blanche, 

"  Yes — I,"  Lady  Cecil  answered  steadily.  ''  I  ought  to  be 
capable — papa,  at  least,  spared  no  expense  on  my  education. 
I  have  been  like  the  lilies  of  the  field  long  enough — I  have 
toiled  not,  neither  have  I  spun.  The  time  has  come  for  both. 
Papa  is  pennilesn,  an  earl  and  a  pauper ;  every  rood  of  land 
he  once  owned  is  mortgaged  past  all  redemption.  What  would 
you  have  me  do  ?  Live  on  your  and  Sir  Peter's  bounty  ?  I 
shrink  miserably  from  the  thought  of  going  out  among  strangers, 
and  yet,  if  you  refuse,  there  is  no  other  alternative.  I  lov«  the 
children,  they  me,  and  I  will  conscientiously  do  my  best  for 
&hem.  As  I  have  neither  testimonials  nor  references,"  smiling 
a  little  sadly,  "  I  shall  not  demand  a  very  high  salary.  If  you 
MOtut  engage  some  one,  I  should  prefer  your  engaging  m^ 
Consult  Sir  Peter,  and  let  me  know." 

"  But,  Queenie — good  Heaven  '  what  will  Sir  Arthur — " 

"  Sir  Arthur  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  me  or  my  ac 
fiions  from  henceforth.  I  thought  I  had  explained  all  that  already. 
My  mind  is  made  up.  I  shall  earn  my  own  living  somehow. 
Oh,  Ginevra,  when  we  think  of  her^  of  what  she  ought  to  be, 
of  all  I  liave  been  forced  to  usurp,  need  I  blush  to  work  ?  " 

The  result  was,  that  l^dy  Cecil  Clive  was  enga|;otj  at 
govern sss  to  Lady  Dangerneld's  chiidien. 

"  Only  remember,  Queenie,  I  won't  have  thsim>.<dl  knovi^" 
GiTisvis  iiid ;  **  k  ll  omki^^  lor  our  goMafiiyg  ocigbbowy  Itaii 


i  V ' 


a9W  IT  EifmBB. 


SSf 


jfM  luiy«  taken  a  whim  to  instruct  Pansf  and  Pcari.     I  ioi  an* 

ff}«:aksibly  ^Ud  you  are  going  to  remain.  I  ihould  die.* 
Drearily  this.  "  Yes,  Queenie,  die,  shut  up  alone  in  a  dinuJ 
country  house,  year  in,  year  out,  with  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  * 

So  it  wai  settled,  and  the  new  life  begun.  The  months  weal 
by,  slowly  and  heavily  enoug!  ,  but  they  went,  and  the  Eari  sj 
Ruysland's  daughter  was  fairly  :aming  her  own  living. 

In  London,  Katherine  was  busy  toa  She  had  as  man 
wnsic  pupils  as  she  could  attend,  and  she  worked  indefiitigabfy 
Her  home  in  the  Otis  cottage  was  a  peaceful — a  pleasant  on« 
— no  mother  could  have  loved  her  more  tenderly  than  Mm 
Otis,  no  brother  half  so  well  as  Henry  Otis.  She  had  hef 
foreign  letters  too,  growing  strangely  precious,  and  as  winter 
warmed  into  spring  there  was  a  sadden  and  most  nnlooked-fof 
visit  firom  their  writer. 

"  In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts 
of  love.'*  Well  not  quite  that,  perhaps-— Sir  Arthm's  thoughts 
turned  lightly  upon  tew  things — least  of  all  that  A  great 
lon^ng  to  see  her,  to  hear  her,  had  come  upon  him  fkr  off  is 
Africa.  All  one  white  Eastern  night  he  lay  awake  watching  ths 
yellow  stars  through  the  opening  of  his  tent  and  thinking  of  heb 
Next  morning  he  started  foi'  England.  All  the  rest — his  joniw 
neyings  by  sea  and  land — was  but  a  feverish  dream,  untU  tht 
reality  came,  and  he  was  standing  in  the  little  cottage  parloi^ 
holding  her  hand,  and  looking  into  the  sweet,  gravely  tlusught* 
fill  eyes.  Was  she  growing  beautiful  he  wondered,  was  it  only 
the  blindness  and  glamour  of  love,  or — and.  this  was  most  likelv 
— wz^  it  the  serene  sweetness  of  an  altered  life  ihining  throngp 
the  de*p  gray  eyes  ? 

Again  he  pleaded — again  she  refused. 

"It  cannot  be — it  canno^il  Oh,  believe  it,  and  forget  me  I 
It  is  impossible  that  I,  after  all  that  is  past,  can  ever  marry." 

•'  Always  the  past  I  "  he  cried,  bitterly.  *•  Does  all  your  snf 
fKPXigy  all  your  wrongs,  all  your  atonement,  go  for  notiung  ?  d 
I  can  forget  the  past,  Katherine,  surely  you  may." 

*<  You  forget  it  now.  In  the  ytair.  to  C4Mne  yon  may  b« 
farced  to  remember  it  And,  as  yotir  wife,  I  don^t  tMoJc  I 
eoiild  bear  that" 

^  Am  I  a  scoundrel  in  your  eyes  ?  "  he  cried  oat,  a  passte 
fci  his  voice  ver)'  new  there,  "Uiat,  having  won  yoa  for  mf 
wife,  I  should  ever  give  you  cause  to  repent  it  ?  " 

'^  I  did  not  mean  that     I  think  nothing  of  you  but  what  il 
and  noble;     If  foo  repented  I  kmv  ipeU  /i 


t 


%,)■::■    -I 


j3f  Jow  rr  Bf^Dnn: 

never  lee  It,  If  foa  could  help  it  Hiit  I  think  T  shovid  see  ( 
for  ail  that  She  who  was  once  Helen  Hemcastle,  can  nevci 
be  \aAj  Tregenna." 

He  turned  away  from  her — tuch  keen  disappointment,  8«ck 
bitter  pain,  written  in  his  face,  that  her  heart  relented.  SIm 
liked  him  so  much — so  much  that  she  began  to  wonder  if  tht 
liking  were  not  loving.  It  was  hardly  possible  such  noblCi 
disinterested,  enduring  love  as  his  should  not  beget  love. 

*•  Oh,  forgive  me,"  she  penitently  cried,  "  if  I  have  wounded 
you  !  Indeed  I  did  not  mean  it  I  \  do  like  you  ;  but  it  is  for 
your  good,  your  happiness,  I  speak.     Cannot  you  see  that  ?  " 

"  I  can  see  nothing  but  that  without  you  my  life  will  ^1  go 
wrong — will  be  utterly  miserable.  Katherine,  I  love  ^ou  I 
What  more  can  I  say  ?     Love  me  in  return,  and  be  my  wife  I  ** 

He  held  out  his  arms.  For  a  moment  she  stood  irresolute 
— longing,  yet  dreading  to  go,  for  his  sake. 

"  Come  to  me  I "  he  pleaded — "  my  bride  1  my  wife  I  For 
get  the  past  has  ever  been — it  shall  never  come  between  us  i 
Come,  and  make  the  happiness  of  my  life  I  " 

And  then,  as  he  enfolded  her,  and  her  head  fell  on  his  shoul- 
der, Katherine  knew  that  peace  had  found  her  oat  tf  U«t 

She  told  him  all  her  story—every  detail  of  her  life,  painting 
what  was  dark  in  its  darkest  colors.  He  should  never  marry 
her — not  knowing  the  worst  Amonn^  the  rest  o'  that  strange 
(ancy  for  Redmond  O'DonnelL 

**  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  it,"  she  said.  "  It  may  have 
been  part  of  the  fatality  that  has  been  at  work  from  the  first  to 
care  for  the  two  men,  of  all  men,  who  could  nevei  care  for  me 
— Gaston  Dantree  and  Redmond  O'Donnell.  The  first  was  but 
a  foolish  girl's  foolish  admiration  for  a  handsome  face ;  the  last 
— idi  I  well,  it  might  have  ripened  into  love,  but  it  is  gone  now 
— gone  forever.  I  would  never  give  you  or  any  man  on  earth 
my  hand,  if  my  heart  might  not  go  with  it  Yon  do  me  great 
honor.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  in  asking  *iie  to  be  your  wife ;  and 
as  you  trust  me,  so  you  will  find  me — your  loving  and  faithful 
wife  to  the  end." 

Three  weeks  later,  in  the  loveljr  April  weather.  Sir  Arthur 
Tregenna,  Bart,  and  Miss  Kathenne  Dangcrficld,  were  quietly 
married  in  London.  Married  from  Hcury  Otis'  cottage,  in  a 
quiet  church  in  the  neighborhood.  There  was  but  one  brides> 
maid — Lady  Cecil  Clive.  And  in  her  white  robes,  her  gossa 
mer  veil,  her  bridal  blossoms,  the  sweet,  tender,  tremulous 
kappiness  of  her  Cace,  Katherine  wm  loveiy.  Loiid  Ruysland 
|iT«  awiqr  tlltt  bridt.    He  had  come  us^ttf^m  from  Bftdea-AMks 


r 


Id  seel 
\n  neTCi 

;nt,  rack 
;d.  SkM 
ler  if  tlif 
h  noblCi 

ve. 

wounded 
t  it  is  for 
that?" 
rill  MJl  go 
>ve  yott ! 
lywifel" 
irresolute 

lie  I     For- 
:ween  us  I 

hisshoul* 

:,  painting 

vcr  marry 

t  strange 

may  hare 
ie  first  to 
re  for  me 

tt  was  but 

the  last 

gone  now 

on  earth 

me  great 

I  wife ;  and 
faithful 

>ir  Arthur 
•re  quietly 
ktage,  in  a 
[ne  bride* 
Iher  gossa 
1  tremulous 
Ruysland 


m 


row  tT  EWDMJk 


9bk  tut  pofpotft.     And  the  great  Cornish  bmroncf  wu  hb 
In-law  at  last 

There  was  a  breakfast  at  the  cottage,  sad  Mrs  Otis  cried  a 
preat  deal  If  Henry  Otis  felt,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  Ukc  keefv 
ing  her  company,  no  one  there  discovered  it  He  bore  it  witb 
philosoi^y,  but  then  he  had  vowed  to  get  the  better  of  his  ill- 
starred  passion,  aiul  he  was  a  man,  whether  to  himself  or  oth» 
ers,  to  keep  his  word. 

Immediately  after  the  ceremony,  the  *'  happy  pair,"  (words 
of  bitter  satire  often — words  true  in  the  highest  sense  here,) 
started  for  a  prolonged  Continental  tour.  Ix>rd  Ruysland 
went  back  to  Germany.  Lady  Cecil  returned  to  Scarswood, 
to  my  lad/*  dreary  wailings,  to  Sir  Peter's  prosy  companion* 
ship,  to  the  weary  toil  of  training  the  obstreperous  twins  in  the 
rudiments  of  English,  French,  music,  and  drawing.  Toil,  dreary 
beyond  all  telling,  but  bravely,  thoroughly,  and  cheerfully  done. 
If  Redmond  O'Donnell's  bronzed,  somber  face,  and  stem  blue 
eyes  came  back  to  her  from  over  the  sea  a  hundred  times  a 
day,  his  name  lever  once  passed  her  lips. 

She  sits,  this  April  afternoon,  under  die  hoary  oak,  her  hands 
playing  listlessly  with  her  pencils,  the  tender  green  oi  earth, 
Cne  tender  blue  of  sky,  the  sunlit  lovelineu  cf  both  unseen. 
She  sits  thinking — she  is  Cur  away  in  the  past — so  (ar  that  she 
wakes  at  last  with  a  start     Thinking  is  profitless  work,  and 

Kesently,  with  a  long,  tired  sigh,  she  takes  up  her  pencils  and 
istol  board  and  begins  to  work.  But  thought  follows  hei 
even  here — the  landscape  she  would  sketch  grows  blurred  be- 
fore her  eyes,  and  it  is  a  face  she  draws — a  face,  erery  espre»> 
skm,  erery  outline  of  which  is  graven  on  her  heart 

She  hears  a  footstep  approaching  up  the  avenue,  but  no  one 
in  whom  she  is  the  least  interestend  ever  comes  to  Scarswood, 
■o  she  does  not  look  up.  She  goes  on  with  her  work,  so  ab< 
•orbed  that  she  forgets  all  about  the  intruder.  He  sees  het 
l&r  ofi)  and  pauses  a  moment  to  look  at  hei.  The  afternoon 
sunshine  gilds  the  sweet,  fair,  drooping  face,  and  kindles  into  a 
halo  the  bronze  hair.  Slowly  he  draws  nearer,  stepping  on  the 
grass  that  he  may  not  disturb  her.  He  comes  close — so  close 
that  he  can  look  over  her  shoulder  and  see  what  it  b  that 
tiolds  her  so  absorbed.  Then  he  speaks,  dose  beside  her,  and 
very  coolly : 

"  If  yon  intend  that  for  a  fancy  face,  Lady  Cedl,  I  have 
Bothing  to  say.  If  for  a  portrait,  then  I  must  tell  yo«  it  is 
nest  egregiously  flattered.** 

Wim  ftarts  op  with  t  07;  fcr  ll  li  a  Hkcaess  of  Redmonl 


u 


MO 


JfOW  rr  ENDB», 


,1 


i  ■  1 '  *  1 1 


il..    II 


ti 


CyDonnell  the  fi  drawing,  and  it  U  Redmo>J  ODonncll  him- 
■elf  wno  stands  smiting  before  Wcf . 

"  Good  day  to  you,  Lad|  Cecil  ** — he  lifts  his  hat  as  thougk 
Ifaey  had  parted  yesterday,  and  holds  oat  his  hand — "  1  am 
afraid  I  have  startled  you  ;  but  not  so  greatly,  I  hope,  that  yon 
cannot  shake  hands.  Ah  I  thanks ! "  As  scarcely  knowing 
what  shr  does  she  lays  four  cold  fingers  in  his.  "  I  thought  al 
firs^  you  meant  to  refuse.  And  how  have  vou  been  since  I 
•aw  you  last  ?  "  He  takes  a  seat  in  the  rustic  chair,  which  ac* 
commodates  three,  and  she  sinks  down,  scarcely  knowing 
whether  she  is  asleep  or  awake,  beside  hioL  Her  heart  is 
throbbing  so  fast  that  for  a  moment  she  turns  giddy  and  faint 
She  has  not  s[)oken  a  word — she  does  not  try  to  speak  now. 
"  Well,"  O'Donnell  says,  in  the  same  cool  tone,  "  yoa  tMt  look 
•ver-glad  to  see  me,  I  must  say.  This  is  what  comet  of  giving 
one's  friends  a  pleasant  surprise.  And  I  flattered  myself  vou 
had  sufficient  friendly  interest  in  me,  or  if  not,  common  pouto- 
ness  enough  at  least,  to  say  you  were  glad  to  tee  me  bacL" 

"I  am  glad"  Her  voice  is  not  steady — ihe  quivers  as  sht 
Bts.  "  But — it  was  so  sudden.  I  am  nervous,  I  suppose, 
and  little  things  startle  me."  She  ^^ys  her  hand  on  her  heift 
to  still  its  tumultuous  beatings,  and  looks  up  at  him  for  tfit 
first  time.  ''  You  are  the  last  person  I  expected  to  see.  | 
diought  you  were  at  Algiers." 

"  The  last  person  we  expect  to  tee  is  very  often  the  (k  jl 
person  we  ih  see,"  O'Donnell  answered,  still  eminently  tel^ 
possested.  "  I  haven't  been  at  Algiers,  and  I'm  not  going.  I 
shall  turn  my  sword  into  a  scythe,  my  rifle  into  a  plowthare,  and 
go  in  for  peace,  respectability,  and  pastoral  Ufe.  I  hATe  beea 
out  in  New  Orleans." 

"In  New  Orleans?" 

"Yes.  I  received  a  telegram  from  my  grandfiither  alter 
leaving  here,  telling  me  his  wife  and  ton  were  dead,  and  r» 
questing  me  to  bring  Rose  back.  We  went  We  hare  bees 
there  ever  since." 

She  was  beginning  to  recover  now.  She  drew  a  little  further 
from  him,  and  began  tracing  figuret  in  the  grata  with  her  wfailt 
parasol. 

**  Your  sister  it  well,  I  hope  ?  ** 

**  My  sister  is  quite  well,  thank  you."  •     ^ 

**  She  remains  in  New  Orleans  with  your  grandfiMher  ^^ 

**  She  is  in  London,  and  my  grandfather  is  dead." 

"  Indeed."  She  is  strangely  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  tomethbt 
v«ry  unusual  with  Lord  Riniiilanif  s  ha^jb-bfled  ifm\ghttr    <^  I 


mnell 


as  thougk 
d— "1  am 
«,  that  yon 
jr  knowing 
thought  at 
len  since  I 
,  which  ac« 
f  knowing 
er  heart  is 
r  and  fftint 
ipeak  now. 
I  iMt  look 
»  of  giving 
mjrielf  too 
mon  poute- 
•back." 
[yen  as  sbt 
I  suppote, 
n  her  heict 
aim  for  tfit 

to  tec     I 


tn  the&jl 
nently  ietf> 
t  going.  I 
irshare,aQd 
hATebeea 


kther  alter 
id,  and  r»> 

hare 


ttk  farther 
b  her  while 


tome 


'•^ 


M9W  IT  mUDED, 


S4I 


kope  then  wc  wfll  tee  Misi  ODonnell  down  at  Scarswood 
shortly." 

**  Well,  yet.  I  aoppote  Rose  will  oocDe.  S^^  is  very  ana- 
loos  to  see  you.  In  fact,  she  wanted  to  accompany  mm  on  this 
occaaion,  but  I  objected." 

-Objected  I     Why?" 

**  I  preferred  to  come  alone.  Other  people  may  be  very 
•ndouB  to  see  you  as  we!l  as  Rose — may  they  not  ?  And  yoa 
know  I  never  like  third  persons  during  my  interviews  with  you.** 

She  still  looks  down  at  the  emerald  turf^  still  traces  Agurei 
with  ker  parasoL     He  looks  at  her,  and  there  is  silence. 

"  You  have  heard  of  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna's  marriage  ?  "  she 
says  at  length  with  a  sort  of  effort  Women  are  always  the 
&rst  to  break  these  embarrassing  paor  es.  "  No  doubt  he  sent 
you  word  ?  " 

"  He  sent  me  no  word — how  could  he  ?  He  thought  with 
you  I  was  in  Algeria.  Still  I  heard  of  it — from  whom  do  yoa 
think  ?     Our  mutual  friend,  Charlie  Delamere." 

*'  Ah  1  Charlie,"  with  a  smile ;  **  he  knew  your  address  then  ?  " 

"  Yes — after  six  months  of  Louisiana,  I  grew  sick  for  newt 
of  England  and  my  friends.  I  did  AOt  care  to  write  to  any  of 
those  friends  direct  for  sundry  reasons,  so  I  sent  a  line  to 
Charlie.  I  got  all  the  news  I  wished  immediately — Sir  Arthur's 
marriage  among  the  rest  He's  a  fine  fellow,  and  in  spite  otf 
the  Miss  Hemcastle  episode,  his  wife  suits  htm.  She  nui$  hia 
— all  is  said  in  that,  they  will  be  happy." 

**  I  hope  so,"  she  answered  softly. 

*'  Your  father  is  in  Germany,  Lady  Cecil  ?  " 

**  He  is  always  in  Germany  of  late — he  seems  to  make  b 
his  home.     Poor  papa  I "     A  sigh. 

*'  And  yon,"  the  blue  eyes  that  can  be  so  keen,  so  hard,  se 
steely,  so  tender,  alternately,  are  watching  her  with  a  light  she 
leels,  but  cannot  meet  "  And  you  still  reside  with  your  cousia 
and  Sir  Peter.  I  am  glad,  by  the  bye,  that  they  are  reconciled. 
Doesn't  the  life  strike  you  as  rather  a  dull  one  ?  " 

**■  Not  particularly.  I  hope  I  have  common-senie  enough  te 
know  life  cannot  be  all  sunshine  and  roses  for  any  of  us.  Scars- 
wood  is  always  a  pleasant  place,  and  I  am  too  busy  to  find 
much  time  for  idle  repiningi.  Work  is  a  boon — I  have  found 
that  out  I  am  the  children's  governess,  now,  yoa  know.  So," 
with  an  effort  to  change  the  subject,  "  you  have  given  up  all 
thoughts  of  Algierkv  Lanty  Lafferty  wiU  rejoice  at  that  1  How 
llktr.  Laffertv?" 

f  ytH7  wd^  uA  itroD^y  matrimonii^y  iirlhiii     H«  ii 


t0 


aoW  IT  MirDgA 


ml. 


ill;  '41 


Ij  ■  ill 


: 


I    i 


ri 


with  me,  ind  gone  to  the  Silver  Kose  to  see  his  ot  j 
fweetheart.  I  believe  a  marriage  will  follow  in  ihc  fullness  of 
lime.  And  so  you  are  governess  to  the  twins — terrible  drudgery, 
1  should  fancy — and  practise  drawing  in  the  intervaU.  Let  me 
have  another  look  at  my  portrait-clever,  perhaps,  m  a  work  cA 
art,  but,  as  I  said  belore,  absurdly  flattered  as  a  lihf:3iess.  Vo« 
do  think  of  me  then  sometimes,  Queenie  ?  " 

The  old  pet  name  i  A  faint  lose-pink  flush  A  epened  all 
•ver  the  fair,  pearly  face. 

"  I  think  of  all  my  friends — what  an  opinion  yw  must  have 
ot  my  memory,  and  I  have  a  private  gallery  of  tin  is  portraits. 
Please  give  me  my  sketch  back — it  is  easier  for  yt^L  to  criticise 
than  to  do  better." 

"A  rule  which  applies  to  all  criticism,  I  fancy.  VIi  give  you 
Ihe  sketch  back  on  oiae  condition — that  I  may  gii  &  you  myieU 
with  it  I " 

*«  Captain  O'Dcnncll  r 

"Lady  Cecil  I" 

The  faint  carnation  was  vivid  scarlet  now.  She  started  up, 
but  he  caught  both  her  hands  and  held  her.  The  bright  blue 
eyes,  full  of  piercing,  laughing  light,  looked  up  into  the  startled 
brown  ozml  Not  much  fierceness — not  much  sternness  there 
now. 

**  What  do  yon  mean;  sir  I  Let  me  ga  Here  com*  the 
children — pray,  let  me  gv^  1 " 

"  Let  them  come  I "  cries  this  reckless  young  Irishman. 
"Let  all  the  world  come,  if  it  likes.  I  shall  not  let  you  go 
nntil  you  promise.  Yon  like  me  excessively—oh  I  it's  of  no 
use  denying  it — ^you  know  you  dc,  but  not  one  thousandth  part 
as  I  like  you.  And  I  want  yoti  to  manj  me.  It  will  not  b« 
so  v^j  nuch  more  stupid  than  v«^etating  at  Scarswood  and 
teaching  the  nine  parts  of  speech  n  Pansy  and  PearL  Come, 
Queenie  t  We  i^ave  been  in  lov^  with  each  other  pretty  nearly 
seven  years.  Thry  say  the  certain,  cure  for  love  is— fnatik 
anony.     Let  us  try  it" 

"  Captain  O'Dcvr.ndl,  let  me  ga* 

**  Not  nntil  ycu  promise.  Queenie,  I  mean  it  I  have  come 
ail  the  way  from  New  Orleans  to  say  this.  I  lore  you — be  my 
wife.  Since  you  can  bear  up  under  the  drudgery  of  a  gover- 
ness* life,  jrou  can  endure  to  be  the  wife  cf  a  poor  man.  Thi 
question  is — will  you  try  ?  " 

"  I  would  have  tried  it  lis  years  ago,  if  Redmond  <yDonneU 
tmd  given  me  thecha^KS.  I  would  have  tried  it  eight  icenths  agO| 
Vkk  prite  bad  i»ol  stood  between  ofl.     I  am  not  ifraid  of  fO¥^ 


lee  his  ot  j 
fullness  ol 
5  dnidgciy, 
I.  Let  me 
I  a  work  dk 
iess.    Yo* 

epened  all 

must  hive 
r  portrait!, 
to  criticise 

h  give  you 
you  myteU 


started  up, 
bright  blue 
he  startled 
mess  there 


the 


Irishman, 
let  yon  go 

it's  of  DO 
andth  part 
rill  not  be 
swood  and 
L  Come, 
ettyneari^ 


ULTecome 
m — be  my 
f  a  gover- 
nan.    The 

'DonneU 

ithsago^ 


aotr  rr  mj^djsd. 


M 


«Mr^*<perfiftpB  because  I  was  bom  to  it — poverty  and  serri- 
inae  were  my  birthright.  Does  Captain  OTonnell  forged 
princely  blood  flow:»  in  his  veins,  and  in  mine — that  of  a  wait 
ng-maid  ?  " 

"That  is  meant  as  a  reproach.  Well,  my  stifT-neckedness  in 
the  past  deserves  it.  But  think  again,  Qucenie — how  you  have 
been  brought  up— that  luxury  has  been  the  very  breath  jcm  ' 
drew — think  what  marriage  with  a  poor  man  means.  S« 
ftuffy  rooms— one  grimy  maid-of-all-work — one  silk  dress  i 
year — no  caiTiage — no  opera — no  society — the  beautiful  and 
«»oetical  of  life  a  dream  of  the  past.     Think  ! " 

"  I  do  think.  I  think  you  want  to  talk  me  into  saying  no — 
yoii  fear  I  may  take  you  at  your  word.  Very  well,  sir — I  say 
It.     I  am  deeply  honored  by  your  offer,  and  beg  to  decline." 

He  drew  her  to  him— close,  closer.  If  those  innocent  twins 
are  anywhere  in  the  visible  horizon  now,  they  stand  strong 
chance  of  being  amazed  and  scandalized. 

"  Queenie,  my  darling — whom  I  never  hoped  to  hold,  to 
lass  like  this — you  really  love  me  well  enough  to  endure  poverty 
and  obscurity  for  my  sake.  You  will  be  my  wife  and  never 
repent.     You  will  go  with  me  and  resign  everything  ?  " 

"  Everything !    Oh,  Redmond  !  I  shall  have  you  /" 

And  then — the  twins  are  drawing  nearer — their  howls  can  be 
heard  through  the  trees,  Lady  Cecil  has  some  consideration 
for  their  artless  youth,  if  Zg  Beau  Chasseur  has  none,  and 
laughing,  an."  'nshing,  and  looking — oh !  so  lovely — withdraws 
to  tilie  extreme  end  of  the  rustic  seat. 

"  No,  Captain  O*  DonneU — not  one  inch  nearer — I  insist  upon 
it !  My  hearing  is  excellent — any  remarks  you  may  have  to 
make  I  can  hear  at  this  distance  perfectly  well.  And  the  other 
performance  is  not  necessary.  Pearl  and  Pansy  are  coming, 
tn<?  you  know  the  proverb — *  Lvttle  pitchers  have  great  ears.' ' 

"  Confound  Pearl  and  Pansy !  Queenie,  you  are  sure  you 
will  never  repent  marrying  a  pennileft  soldier  of  fortune  1 " 

"  I  tell  you  I  like  poverty.  How  stupid  some  people  are— 
forcing  one  to  repeat  the  same  thing  over  and  over.  I  prefer 
it  decidedly — yes,  I  do — don't  look  like  that — I  do." 

"Ah!"  O' DonneU  said,  gravely,  "  I  am  sorry  for  that  It 
may  be  painful  for  you  to  hear,  Lady  Cecil,  but — I  have  had  a 
fortune  left  me ! " 

"  Redmond  1 "  starting  up,  indignantly.     "  A  fortune  ! " 

"  Yes,  my  love — don't  let  your  angry  passions  rise  if  ywi 
can  help  it — a  fortune.  M.  De  Lansac  died  three  moclhi  i§0^ 
tod  divided  hiA  fBrtoae  equaUy  between  Rose  and  dm.    It 


11 

m 


U:   II 


:2^::  '^i 


ii^m 


S44 


jroir  rr  gyi>jSA 


•  feitnne  af  iwo  million  dolUn.  A  pittance,  perfiapa,  • 
pttred  with  the  inheritjuice  of  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna;  bui  to 
poverty-loving,  humble  individuals  like  Lady  Cecil  Clive  and 
Redmond  O'Donnell,  sufficient  for  the  bread  and  chccM  of 
life,  L\  page  in  buttons,  and  iitm  silk  dresses  per  annum.  Mf 
love  I  my  love  I " 

Where  is  the  distance  between  them  n^w  f — and  the  tmm 
ire  standing  petrified,  open-mouthed  and  eyed,  at  what  they 
behold  not  six  jrards  off, 

"  I  can  give  you  wealth  ai  well  ai  love  Thank  God  fior  tha 
happiness  He  has  given  me  at  last  1 " 


The  light  fades  from  the  scenes  and  the  (kcet  we  know — Hm 
Wdur  has  come  to  part  One  by  one  they  glide  into  th<s  shadowy 
diftiance  and  are  lost  to  you  and  me  forever.  Is  any  one  wh« 
h»d  followed  their  fortunes  sorry  to  let  them  go,  I  wonder — to 
say  forever  farewell  ? 

Take  one  last  look,  before  the  curtain  fklli,  to  rise  no  more. 
Of  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Dangerfield,  dragging  oat  their  married, 
not  mated,  lives,  in  the  grandeur  and  dullness  of  Scarswood. 
Of  I.AHty  Lafferty,  a  married  m.t%n,  with  ''Shusan"  tor  his  wife, 
the  prosperous  proprietor  of  a  ''*  public**  Of  Henry  Otis  and 
his  mother,  prosperous  in  London,  with  Katherine  and  his 
hopeless  k>ve  already  a  dream  of  the  past  Of  Squire  Talbot, 
who  hopes  very  soor  to  bring  home  a  mistress  to  Morecambe 
— a  mistiess  as  yet  known  as  Rose  O'DonnelL  Of  Captain 
and  Lady  Cecil  O'Donnell,  happy  beyond  all  telling  of  mine — 
happy  in  that  perfect  wedded  love  rarely  found  upon  earth 
And  lastly,  of  Sir  Arthur  and  Lady  Tregenna,  with  the  past 
bat  a  dark,  vad  dream  they  never  recall  loving  each  other, 
tTusting  each  other,  as  great  hearts  and  noble  souls  do  love  and 
fnist  They  are  still  abroad,  in  pleasant  wandering  through 
pleasant  lands.  One  day  they  will  return  to  Cornwall,  and 
among  all  the  mistresses  that  in  the  last  four  hundred  years 
have  ruled  it  in  tkoary  old  Tregenna,  none  will  be  more  be- 
knred,  none  mote  worthy  of  all  love  and  honor,  than  she  who 
was  once  Helen  Hemcastle.  Her  hce  floats  before  me  as  I 
write  the  words,  noble,  tender,  womanly,  peaceful,  and  happy, 
tt  last     Let  the  mwm  that  began  tlui  story  end  it — KArnik 


.•siJ . 


la;  bui  to 
Clive  and 
checte  gI 

num.     Mf 

dthetwiM 
what  ihef 

kxlCortba 


know — the 
Msihadowy 
i/one  wh« 
rooder — to 

t  no  more, 
tr  married, 
Scarswood. 
>r  his  wife, 
7  Otis  and 
le  and  hii 
b-e  Talbot, 
[orecambe 
H  Captain 
of  mine — 
x>n  earth 
I  the  past 
ich  other, 
0  love  and 
g  through 
nwall,  and 
red  years 
more  be^ 
she  who 
«  me  as  I 
nd  happy, 


MRS,  MARY  J,  HOLMES'  NOVELS 

Over  a  Mii.l-ION  Solu. 

As  fj '.T?"ii«ii  of  doiHcstic  Htorioa,  wliit  li  ar<>  cxtromclv  int<"crt*Iiifr.  TNIis.  Mary 
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TempoHt  iiiiil  .Smishiiio.         ">iiisy  Tlioriitoii 
EhkHhIi  OrpliiiiiM.  «jliat(';m  J)'(>r. 

IIouicsl  cation  tlio  UillMido,  (iiu-ciiic  Jletliciton 


'Lciiii  liivers. 

M<;iul<)\v  Brook. 

Dora  DeaiKv 

Cou8iii  Maude. 

Miirian  Grev. 

Edith  Lyle. 

Dr.  UatUeru's  Daughters 


iJarkms  <  niid  Daylight. 
Hugh  Worlhiiigtoii. 
<^a.i;,:'oii  I'rido. 
xio.s-  Mallier. 
KHielyn's  JNli.stake. 
Millhaidc. 

Price  !f!l.r)0  per  Vol. 


lOdiia  I'.ioviiliig. 
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nnmbaiids  and  Homes. 
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IMuirnie's  Teni])talion 
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From  My  Youth  Up. 

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The  King  of  Alber'ia— By  L  D 
Fort  Reno -By  . Mr*    D    II.  Dyer..  1 

Lady  Olivia— By  Cul.  Fnlkuer i 

White  Rose  of  Memp'iiis     Do...  i 

Red  Rose  of  Savannah— A.  S.  M  i 

The  Pink  Rose  of  Mexico.       i)o.  1 

^Yellow  Rose  of  NewOrleans. '*    i 

jit's  a  Way  Love  Has 25 

IZaraiMa — By  Boulah 50 

Florine 50 

Smart  Saying.i  of  Children— Paul  z  00 

Crazy  History  of  the  U.  S 50 

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The  Wages  of  Sin 

Idwymon — By  Fred'kA.  Randle..  1 
The  Disagreeable  Man — A.  S.  M. 
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Dawn  to  Noon — By  VioUi  raijc.  i 
Constance's  Fate.  Do  .  i 

Missing  Chord — Lucy  Dillingham  i 

Ronbar— By  R.S.  Dement i 

A  Manless  World — Youiell 75 

Journey  to  Mars  — Pope i  50 

The  Dissolution — Dandelyon... .   i  00 

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Jack  in  the  Jungle,    Do i  50 

Dick  Broadnead.         Do 1  50 

Red  Birds  CliristmasStory, Holmes  i  oo 

Flashes  from  "Ouida" 125 

Private  LettersofaFrench Woman  75 
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Eighty-Seven  Kisses — By? 75 

Treasury  of  Knowledge i  00 

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Phemie  Frost — Ann  S.  Stephens.,  i 
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The  Story  of  a  Day  in  London.. 
Lone  Ranch — By  Mayne  Ktid..,.   i 
The  Train  Boy — Horatio  Alger... .  i 

Dan,  The  Detective — Alger i 

Death  Blow  to  Spiritualism 

The  Sale  of  Mrs.  Adral— Co.stello 
The  New  Adam  and  Eve— Todd. 
Bottom  Facts  in  Spiritualism..  1 
Th.i  MysteryofCentralPark— Bly 
Debatable  Land— R.  Dale  Owen,  a 
Threading  My  W^ay.        Do.       .  i 
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Galgano's  Wooing — Stebbins i 

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Doctor  Antonio — By  Ruffini i  50 

Beatrice  Cenci — From  the  Italian,  i  50 

The  Story  of  Mary i  50 

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Jessica— By  Mrs.  W.  H.White.... 

"Women  of  To-day.      Do 

The  Baroness — Jo.iquin  Miller... 
Oie  Fair  Woman.  Do. 
TheBurnhams — Mrs.G  E.Stewait 
Eugene  Ridgewood— I'aul  James 
Braxton's  Er^i  -R.  M.  Da)j;j;ett. .. 
Miss  Beck — By  Tilbury  liolt.. .    , 

A  Way  ward  Life.. .   

Winning  Winds — Emerson 

The  Fallen  Pillar  Saint— Beit... 

An  Erra.d  Girl— Johnson . . 

Ask  Her,  Man!   AskHerl 

Hidden  Power— T.  H. Tihhies. . . . 
Parson  Thorne— E.M  .Buckingham 

Errors— By  Ruth  Carter  

The  Abbessofjouarre — Renan  . 
Bulwer's  Letters  ♦•His  Wife.. 
Sense — A  serious  book.    Pomeroy. 

GolJ  Dust Do. 

Our  Saturday  Nights..  Do. 
Nonsense — A  comic  book  Do. 
Brick  Dust,  Do.  Do, 

Home  Harmonies Do, 

Vesta  '/ane— By  L,  Kuir,  R 

KimL'all's  Novels — 6  vols.  PerVoI. 
Warwick— M.  T.Walworth 


Hotspur. 

Lulu. 

Stormcliff. 

Delaplai.ne. 

Beverly. 

Zahari, 


Do. 
Do. 
Do. 
Do. 
Do. 
Do. 


The  Darling  of  an  Empire 

Clip  Her  Wing,  or  Let  Her  Soar 

Nina's  Peril — By  Mrs.  Miller 

Marguerite's  Journal— Kor  Girls. 
Orpheus  C.  Kerr— Four  vols,  irone 
Perfect  Gentleman— Lockwood.. . 
Purple  and  Fine  Linen— Fawcett 
Pauline's  Trial— L.D.  Courtney.. 

Tancredi— Dr.  E.A.Wood 

Measure  for  Measure— Stanley.. 

A  Marvelous  Coincidence 

Two  Men  of  the  World— Bates. 

A  God  of  Gotham — Bascom 

Congressman  1  ohn— MacCarthy 

So  Runs  the  World  Away 

Birds  of  a  Feather — Sothern 

Every  Man  His  Own  Doctor. . . . 
Professional  Criminals — Byrnes. 
Heart  Hungry.Mrs. Westmoreland 
Clifford  Troupe.  Do. 

Price  of  a  Life — R.  F.  Sturgls.... 

Marston  H all— L.  Ella  Byrd 

Conquered— By  a  New  Author. . . . 
Tales  from  the  Popular  Operas 

The  Fall  of  Kilman  Kon 

San  Miniato — Mrs.  C.V.  Haniiltfm 
AH  for  Her— A  Talc  of  New  York 


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MARION  HARLOO'S 


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SPLENDID  NOVELS. 

The  loUowing  ts  a  list  of  ths  Novels  by  tha  Author  ex, 

••Alone." 


Alone. 

Hidden  Patlu 
KoBS  Side, 
Nemesis. 

Sunny  Bank. 
Auby's  Husband. 
At  Last. 


Hy  Little  liove. 
Phemie's  TemptatkMki 
The  Empty  Heart. 
Trom  My  Youth  XXp. 
Helen  Gardner. 
Husbands  and  Home^ 
Jessamine. 
True  as  Steel. 


Thes«  vols,  can  be  had  at  any  bookstore  In  the  clotii* 
bound  library  edition.     Price,  $1.60. 


-*•*• 


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**It  In  m  strong  proof  of  Marlon  Ilarland'B  abflity,  that  she  has  been  able,  fbf 
I  a  length  of  time,  to  retain  her  hold  npou  tho  pabUo.    The  eeeret  of  hM  saeeeui 
!•  that  her  books  are  traly  exec  Uent.*'— iVtiAi.  Ttrmi. 

**  Marlon  Harland  understands  the  art  of  coDftmeting  a  plot  whkh  yrtll  ga)a 
Che  attention  of  the  reader  at  the  l>«glnniog,  and  keep  op  Ihe  kitereat  unbroken  t» 
the  last  page.*'— PA j/a.  Ttlegram. 

**Varlon  Harland  la  rery  popnlar  becaase  she  to  nataral  and  chaste.  She  !• 
Welcome  to  the  home  circle  bocaufee  ehe  Is  Imbned  with  the  holiest  prindplee.  Shtt 
anmnges  her  plots  with  great  skill,  and  developcs  them  with  language  oommenda« 
Ida  for  parity  and  earnestness  of  expression.*'-— Zcotport  Union.  ! 

**  As  a  writer  of  fiction,  Marion  Harland  has  attained  a  wide  and  wcTl-eamed  f 
npatatfon.    Her  noveia  are  of  surpassing  excellence  and  Interest'*— £bf»«  JcnumdLt 

f  >e>  < 

AD  handsomely  printed  and  botind  In  cloth,  8oId  •v^iywhcnv, 
ftnd  sent  by  mail,  postage  free,  on  receipt  of  pric^  '$1.60),  by 

«^  G.'  W.  Dillingham,  Pubijsheb,^ 

9S  We8ti.:@3^.Sti)9et.  TXvtt  Tocik 


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